A Slight Return Home
by reciprocityfic
Summary: Rick's death shakes Michonne's world to its core. With her daughter and her remaining family, she tries to navigate her changed life, and all the struggles and surprises that come with it.
1. a slight return home

**Author's Note:** Hi. I didn't plan to/really want to write this, but it kept crawling around in my head and I had to get it out. I hope you like it!

The title comes from the song, "A Slight Return Home" by Woodpigeon.

No spoilers if you've seen up to 9x06. This is all speculation/my imagination. Canon-compliant, for now.

* * *

 **a slight return home**

After she realizes she's pregnant, she cries for ten nights straight.

She almost screams. She'd just managed to turn her nightly cries into manageable, sporadic occurrences, and now they were back with a vengeance, over something that should make her happy. That should make them happy. But there is no them, anymore. The he isn't here. And she's not happy. Not about anything.

So she cries. She puts Judith to bed after explaining again why Daddy hasn't been here to kiss her goodnight for such a long, long time, and then she goes into their room and she cries. She lays down on the bed, stretches her arm out into the empty space where he used to sleep, and she cries, cries, cries.

On the eleventh night, she cries for fifteen minutes before she decides that enough is enough.

She gets up and moves around quickly, throwing on the clothes she wore the day before and pulling on her boots, slinging her katana over her shoulder and then going to Judith's room. She wakes up her daughter, telling her to grab her blanket and stuffed bunny.

"Why, Momma?" Judith asks in a small, quiet voice, her eyes still half closed.

She plasters a smile on her face for her daughter.

"We're gonna go visit Uncle Aaron's house. Have a sleepover with him and Gracie."

"Gracie?" Judith asks, immediately perking up at the mention of the toddler. "Gracie's my friend."

"Yes, she is. So it'll be lots of fun."

Aaron answers her knock slowly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and looking at her curiously.

"Michonne?"

She hates to ask this of him. He's only just come home from the infirmary after losing his arm, and she knows he's still adjusting. She knows he's stressed and exhausted, and this is one of the last things he needs.

But Aaron is one of the last people left on Earth that she trusts, and she _needs_ this, desperately.

"Would it be possible for you to watch Judith for a couple hours?"

He tilts his head to the side in his confusion, and it almost makes her break down on the spot.

"Uh. Why?"

"I need to...go somewhere."

" _Now_?" he questions. "It's the middle of the night."

"I know that," she says. "I know, but I need...I really need to go."

"Where?"

"Aaron, I'm - "

"Are you taking someone with you?"

She bites her lip, and glances down at the ground. His tone is sharp, and stern. Like he's her parent and caught her sneaking out of the house and into the dark.

"No," she whispers.

"Michonne," he says with a sigh, leaning his head against the doorframe. "Leaving in the middle of the night, all by yourself, without telling anyone where you're going? That sounds like a _terrible idea_. It kind of sounds suspicious, honestly."

He starts to say more, but he pauses, and holds back. It doesn't matter. She knows what he's thinking. She knows what he wants to tell her.

 _You're being irrational, because you're still grieving. He's gone, he's gone, and your sadness is clouding your mind. It's causing you to make bad decisions. You can't be trusted right now. Not yet._

Those thoughts burn inside her, and she tries to be offended, but she can't be. Because it's _Aaron_ , of all people, and because he's genuinely concerned for her well-being. But mostly because he's gone through this, and he knows how it feels. He knows the pain that's eating her alive.

So she closes her eyes, swallows her fear and trepidation, and opens up to someone about it for the first time, the slightest bit.

"I'm going to the bridge," she admits, in the quietest voice she can manage. She's scared to say it too loudly. She's scared someone will hear, and try to take it from her.

Aaron doesn't answer. When she looks at him again, he's staring off into the distance. After a moment, he rubs his hand over his face.

Maybe he still won't accept it. Worry begins to twist in her gut.

"Please, Aaron, I need this. I just...need it, _please_. I know it's stupid and dangerous, and -"

"It's not stupid," he murmurs, cutting her off. "It's not."

She shrugs and nods once. Another beat passes between them.

"If you're not back by daybreak, I'm sending people out to look for you," Aaron says finally. "Whether you like it or not."

She almost cries in relief when she realizes he's doing this for her.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you."

Judith's fallen back asleep on her shoulder, but she stirs when she passes the little girl over. The transfer is a little clumsy, with Aaron only being able to use one arm, but after a few seconds, he assures Michonne that he's got Judith, and she pulls back.

Judith stares at Michonne with squinted, sleepy eyes.

"I'll see you soon, baby. Okay?"

"Not coming with me?" Judith questions, an immediate pout appearing on her face.

"Not right now. Mommy's gotta go somewhere really quick, but she'll be back before you wake up from your sleepover."

"Don't leave," she demands in her tiny voice. She's fully alert now, and tears have started to gather in her eyes. "No. No, Momma."

Michonne frowns at her reaction. She leaves quite frequently. She always has, and Judith is used to it. It's the way she grew up, and she's never had a problem with it before.

"Judy, it's just for a little bit," she coos, trying to soothe the girl. She reaches out and takes Judith's hand. "You'll be safe with Uncle Aaron and Gracie, and I'll be back and we'll have breakfast together. Like we always do."

"Daddy said bye, and he's not home."

Judith's words hit Michonne like a brick to the head. She sways back on her feet, speechless.

"Judith," she hears Aaron say. He begins to bounce her up and down as he holds her.

Suddenly, Michonne unfreezes, and throws herself at Judith, nearly knocking Aaron over in the process. She squeezes her daughter close to her chest, plants kisses on her forehead, cheek, and nose.

"I'm coming back," she tells her, the conviction in her voice overwhelming. "I'm coming back. I promise you."

It was Michonne's singular mission in life, now. To always come back, no matter the cost or consequence.

"Pinky promise?" Judith murmurs.

Michonne almost smiles. Henry had taught Judith pinky promises during a visit from The Kingdom last week, and she's been obsessed with the concept ever since.

She leans back slightly, and wraps her much-bigger pinky around the little girl's.

"Pinky promise."

* * *

She sits at the edge of the creek that runs under the bridge, a handful of yards away from the remains of the ruined structure. She'd picked the spot arbitrarily, because she doesn't have a specific spot to go to.

They never found his body. They searched for days that turned into weeks, and came up with nothing.

They never found his body, and she _hates_ it.

She hates the uncertainty it leaves in the deepest pit of her stomach, unresolved and churning. She hates that he was taken from her, _completely._ She hates that he is gone, and she wasn't even left with a body to bury. She hates that he is gone, and she doesn't know where he is.

She hates it so much that she's tempted to go searching now, even though it's pitch black out. But she has to be back by morning, so she decides against it, and instead finds a quiet, open spot by the water, and sits.

It makes her feel sick, being here. Nausea washes over her, and for the first time in what seems like ages, it isn't due to the cluster of cells growing in her uterus. She bends over and dry heaves violently.

There's a part of her that wants to leave. Wants to leave immediately, as fast as she can, and never come back to this cursed, awful place.

But the other part of her knows that she needs this. She needs him, and although she doesn't know where to find him, she knows that he _was_ here, or at least near here, in his final moments. That's all she has. That's all she's been given.

So she takes what she can get. She clutches onto it, and takes a deep breath to steady herself.

Then, she speaks.

"I'm pregnant."

It's the first time she's spoken it aloud. The words startle her, and her hands begin to shake.

"I'm pregnant," she tells him, again. She can't think of anything else to say.

She closes her eyes, and for the first time since it happened, she lets herself see him.

At first, she can only picture him the way he was the last time she ever saw him: covered in blood and dirt, tired and vulnerable. A morbid resoluteness on his face that darkened his blue eyes, and that she could detect even from afar.

But she shakes her head, and scrunches her face as she concentrates. She turns the wheels in her brain and makes herself remember more.

The blood and dirt wash from his skin. His eyes brighten. He changes into his blue denim shirt and a smile turns up his lips. They're on their old couch, and his hair is long enough that it's started to curl at the ends. He smiles at her again, and she has mints in her hand and then they're kissing. His hands are everywhere, and she tastes him on her tongue, and she holds onto him for dear life. He moves so he's on top of her, and his weight presses her into the cushions, and for the first time since she saw the initial news report talking about some strange illness going around, she feels everything is right in the world.

She wiggles out from under him, and stands up. She leans down to press her mouth to his one more time, and then takes his hand and laces their fingers together. He _giggles_ behind her as she drags him up the stairs, and she immediately decides it's her new favorite sound. They reach his room, and she pauses, turns to look at him. He smiles, and kisses her softly. Excitement and joy buzz together in her every atom.

"I'm pregnant," she tells him. She reaches and rests her right palm over her stomach, as her eyes begin to shine.

He changes. He looks like he did before it happened, and they're home and she's in their bathroom and he won't stop knocking and checking on her. She's smiling. She's staring down at two little lines and she can't stop smiling.

She throws the door open so fast that he almost tumbles, and she shows him the two little lines. He laughs, he laughs _so loud_ , and picks her up and twirls her around, like all those happy couples do in movies. He kisses her, and doesn't put her down. She never wants him to put her down. He moves back for the briefest second, and then kisses her again, slowly and deeply. It's her favorite kiss she's ever had. He pulls back and he smiles, he smiles, he smiles.

"I'm pregnant," she tells him. A tear escapes from the corner of her eye, and falls down her cheek.

And for the first time since it happened, she smiles.

* * *

" _I think that did it."_

 _She snorts at his statement. She's laying on her back in their bed, naked and feeling that perfect combination of sated, exhausted, and happy. He's lying right beside her, same position, same nakedness, same feeling._

" _That was the first time we tried," she reminds him._

" _I know. I still think that did it. Y'know, we are pretty good at this sort of thing."_

 _She turns her head and finds him already looking at her. When their eyes connect, he wiggles his eyebrows mischievously, and she laughs with her entire body before crawling on top of him._

" _You're ridiculous," she says, as she traces her finger down the line between his pecs. "You know that, right?"_

" _I do," he confirms, catching her hand and holding it in his. "But that's why you love me, right?"_

 _She rolls her eyes playfully, and then glances around their bedroom. She spots her books and notepads strewn across the floor at the foot of the bed._

" _I want you to know that you're picking up all my work off the floor and organizing it again. Since you're the one that knocked it off the bed. It's only fair," she tells him._

" _Whatever you want, my love."_

 _She snorts again at the pet name._

" _You're also cheesy. Ridiculous and cheesy."_

" _Like I told you, it's why you love me."_

 _She hums. He's not wrong._

 _He reaches up and begins to play with her hair, and she rests her head down on his shoulder, in the crook of his neck. They lay there for a few minutes, both listening to the other breathe. She's just come upon the edge of sleep when she hears his voice rumble in his chest._

" _Michonne?"_

" _Yeah?" she asks._

" _I love you."_

 _Her lips turn up. She inhales, and then presses a kiss over his heart._

" _I love you, too."_

 _She closes her eyes again, as he begins to tap the tips of his fingers up and down her spine, as if he's playing a piano._

 _She could lay here forever with him if she let herself. A large part of her wants to. But she knows there's a world outside their bedroom to think of. There are books to be studied, and notes to be written, and charters to be made._

 _She's about to tell him to go pick up her stuff, but he speaks before she can._

" _You wanna try again?"_

 _She laughs out loud, and lifts her head up to stare at him._

" _I thought you said we already did it."_

 _He smirks as he looks at her, and she watches lust fill up his eyes as his hand on her back travels lower to grab at her ass._

" _There's nothing wrong with double-checkin'."_

 _She shakes her head, but she can't hide the grin that takes over her face. He's ridiculous. Ridiculous, and cheesy, and hers._

 _He's all hers._

 _So she pushes thoughts of all the work she has to do to the back of her brain and locks them away. He will always come first. Him, their family, and their future._

 _She plants an open-mouthed kiss on the underside of his jaw, relishes in the soft moan it produces in the back of his throat. He shifts and maneuvers and rolls them over, so that he's lying on top of her again, and hitches her leg up around his waist._

" _Yeah," he murmurs against her skin, as he begins to kiss and lick down her neck. "Definitely nothin' wrong with double-checkin'."_

* * *

She rides through the gates of Alexandria just as the first rays of light start to peek over the horizon.

Aaron looks immensely relieved to see her when she arrives at his house. He ushers her in, and offers to make her a cup of tea while she goes upstairs to check on Judith.

When she looks into Gracie's room, she finds her daughter fast asleep, laying in a nest of fluffy pink blankets on the floor, bunny tucked under her arm, and mouth slightly open. Her heart swells, and she stands and watches the peaceful scene for a few more moments before pulling the bedroom door closed and walking downstairs.

When she walks into the kitchen, she finds Aaron standing over two mugs. He grabs one and hands it to her as she settles at the kitchen island, and she brings the cup to her mouth, breathing in the warm, soothing steam exuding from the water and tea inside. Aaron comes around and stands beside her.

For a few minutes, the only sounds are of the house settling, and of slight slurping noises as they take careful sips of their hot drinks.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," Aaron begins, "and feel free not to answer. But what did you need to do out there?"

She shrugs, and sets her mug down on the black-and-white marble countertop. She doesn't mean to answer him, but the words spill out before she can stop them.

"I'm pregnant," she whispers. "I needed to tell him."

It's simple, she supposes, when it's broken down like that.

Aaron doesn't react either way, and she's so thankful for that she almost hugs him. He doesn't congratulate her, and he doesn't look at her with pity. He just nods once, and lets the words settle between them.

"Did you?" he asks, after a moment. "Tell him?"

"Yeah. I did."

Aaron nods again, and then downs the rest of his tea in one, long gulp. Afterwards, he walks over and sets his mug in the sink.

"If it's okay with you," he tells her, "I'm gonna go upstairs. I couldn't sleep most of the night, so I'm gonna see if I can get in a couple hours before Gracie gets up."

She figures that's partly her fault, and she presses her lips together in an apologetic half-smile as she looks at him. He goes to leave the kitchen. As he passes by her, he reaches out and squeezes her shoulder gently.

She listens to his footsteps as he walks up the stairs, and then hears the click of his bedroom door closing. The house is quiet again. She glances around idly, and the window catches her eye. The soft gray sky that greeted her when she entered the gates has turned into brilliant pinks and oranges and purples.

She takes her mug and walks to the front door, opening it up and stepping outside. The town is still quiet. Only a few people mill about the streets. She sits down in the rocking chair on Aaron's front porch and watches.

She's always loved to rise early and watch the world around her wake up. In her old life, she would wake up far earlier than Mike and Andre most Saturdays and Sundays, and drink coffee as she gazed out the windows in their apartment, looking on as Atlanta came to life beneath her. And in Alexandria, she would sometimes sit out on the porch, like she is now, or on the balcony. She would breathe in the fresh morning air as she observed the world turn from night to day.

She hasn't done it in awhile. Not since it happened.

She sits there, today, rocking back and forth in her chair, and taking occasional sips of her tea. Her free hand falls to her stomach, and she watches the sun rise.

* * *

 **A/N:** Aaron and Michonne friendship for the win, am I right or am I right?

There will be 2-3 more chapters of this, as long as I can concentrate enough to get it done.

I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think. And I hope you're all doing okay.

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	2. our endless, numbered days

**Author's Note:** Hello there. I hope everyone who celebrates had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Sorry I didn't have a chapter for you last week. It was tough to get writing done with the holiday going on. But going forward, I think that's going to be my update goal for this story - a chapter a week.

Thanks for all the reviews, love, and support I received for the last chapter. It was so appreciated, and really motivated me when I didn't really feel like writing.

I listened to "Our Endless Numbered Days" by Iron & Wine while I wrote this, especially "Fever Dream" and "Passing Afternoon". The title is obviously in reference to this, and happens to be a specific lyric in "Passing Afternoon". I really recommend giving the album a listen if you never have. It's really chill and soft and melancholy.

Hope you enjoy this chapter! Again, no spoilers.

* * *

 **our endless, numbered days**

She goes to see Siddiq the next day. The infirmary is empty when she gets there, save for one other woman and her husband. Siddiq gives her a polite smile when she gets there - lips pressed together, corners of his mouth curled up just the slightest touch.

No one fully smiles at her anymore - not since it happened. It's all closed mouths and half-smirks, eyes filled with either caution or condolences. She's tired of seeing them, so she typically walks with her head down, and counts the cracks she sees in the pavement to keep her mind off her life and the world around her.

"Give me two minutes," Siddiq tells her, and she nods, giving him the same polite smile back. She waits as he finishes wrapping up the woman's arm in gauze. Her name is Julia, and her husband's name is Ken. They live around the corner from Michonne's house. Julia works in the garden. Ken used to be a plumber, so now he helps keep Alexandria's water and sewer systems working reliably.

They're middle-aged. Nice, but quiet. Rarely, if ever, go out beyond the walls.

But most notably, they're unremarkable. Boring. Unimportant, all things considered. Of course, no life can be considered completely _unimportant_ in this new world, where the dead roam. But if one or both of them died tonight, Alexandria would run like it is right now, without a hiccup or hitch.

She's come to resent these kinds of people.

Not because she thinks they're not doing enough, or pulling their weight. She doesn't resent them because they're not fighters, or leaders. They've found their place in the community. They're contributing to the greater good in ways they can.

She just wishes, with increasing frequency these days, that _she_ could be boring and unremarkable. That she and her family could be faceless, nameless figures in the background, instead of being the ones who have to make hard decisions, and go outside the gates to do dangerous things.

If she was - if _they_ were - she'd still have Rick.

Ken and Julia aren't the type of people who have to lead herds of walkers away on horseback. Neither of them would have to set off dynamite and blow up the bridge they'd worked so hard for to keep that herd from getting to the different communities.

They'd never have to die for the greater good. They'd never have to sacrifice themselves for the future.

And it isn't fair, she thinks. It isn't fair that Rick wasn't one of the people who got to stay home and work on pipes, and that she wasn't someone who got to grow tomatoes and squash in the garden. It isn't fair that they didn't get to come home every night and eat a peaceful dinner with Judith. And it isn't fair that she didn't get to sleep every night with Rick wrapped around her, both of them calm and content with their knowledge that tomorrow would be the same - ordinary, typical, routine, _safe_.

Instead, she's _that_ type of person - the opposite of her neighbors. Rick was, too. They were, together.

And because of that, it happened. Rick _died_.

Because of that, she's all alone, now, and Judith doesn't have her father anymore, and the little one inside her will never even _know_ theirs. Because of that, a family has been torn apart. Lives have been shattered, forever changed, and she doesn't know how she's going to _do_ this - lead a community while raising two children by herself, overcome her grief, find a way to be happy again, or at least okay most of the time, and she -

She hears someone snap their fingers. It startles her, and after she shakes her head and focuses, she sees Siddiq's hand in front of her face.

"Michonne? You okay?"

She blinks hard at nothing, and then glances around the room. Julia and Ken are gone. The infirmary is empty.

"Not many patients today, huh?"

She turns towards him, plastering that polite smile on her face once again, and trying to force her eyes to brighten. She raises her eyebrows slightly. Her mother told her once when she was in high school that when you raise your eyebrows, it makes you look happier, even if you don't feel it.

God knows she needs to look happier these days, if only to get everyone to stop being so concerned about her. To put an end to the sympathy and the expressions of commiseration. They're not helping anything, and she's tired of them.

"Yeah, it's slow today," Siddiq mumbles absently, eyes moving away for only a second before they're back on her, swimming with worry and faint confusion. "Is everything alright?"

No. Nothing is alright, and nothing's been alright since she lost him, but Siddiq knows this, and she knows that's not what he means. She also knows that she shouldn't be irritated by his question. Because technically, it's _his_ responsibility, more than anyone's, to make sure she's okay. And to do something about it if she isn't.

But that question, or some variation of it, has been floating around her for weeks, playing all day every day like a fucking broken record, and she's _tired_ of it.

She's _so tired._ Of everything.

"I'm fine," she lies, to get past the question. "Everything's fine."

"Just come for a visit, then?"

Siddiq half-smiles at her, and she knows he's calling her out. If she was fine, she wouldn't be here. If she'd just wanted to talk to him, she would've waited until he went home for the day and caught him then, to make sure not to clog up his schedule.

She's here because she has something to tell him, and he knows that.

She shifts her gaze so she's looking out the window behind Siddiq, and chews on her tongue. Quiet falls over them as she takes a few moments to think about how to tell him. How to lead into it.

She doesn't come up with anything, so she just blurts it out.

"I'm ninety-nine percent sure I'm pregnant."

Siddiq doesn't answer, and she keeps staring out the window.

She's not sure how long the two of them stand there - her gazing through panes of glass at the outside world, him stuck in silence. After awhile, something close to self-consciousness starts to slither around in her brain and heat up her skin.

She doesn't know what he's thinking - is he concerned for her? Excited? Did she just give him another reason to pity her? Is he going to tell anyone? Does he think she's stupid for letting this happen?

She doesn't know what he's thinking, and it's driving her nuts. She considers leaving, but before she can turn towards the door, he starts to stutter at her.

"I'm sorry, I just - I - I didn't...expect…"

She chances a glance at him, and finds him staring at the ground, one arm crossed in front of him while he uses his other hand to hold his face and rub his thumb over his jaw. He's frowning, and his brow is pulled together in concentration.

"Is this expected?" he asks

"No," she answers immediately, but then she closes her eyes. That's not entirely true.

"Maybe," she amends, with a quick, jerky shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. We decided we were gonna try, but it was only a week before…"

She allows herself to trail off, because she doesn't want to say it, and she doesn't _need_ to say it. She knows Siddiq gets what she's referencing.

"So you're around a month? A month and a few days, at most?"

She nods. That sounds about right.

"Well, we do have some pregnancy tests if you want to take one. I don't know how accurate they'll be -"

"I don't need to take a pregnancy test. I know…"

She inhales and exhales slowly, trying to collect herself. She doesn't want to cry in front of Siddiq. She doesn't want to give him another reason to worry about her. But she can feel the pressure building behind her cheekbones, and the water collecting in her ducts, so she lifts her hands and presses her palms against her eyes, as if trying to physically push back her tears.

"I am," she whispers. "I'm pregnant."

She feels wetness on the skin of her left hand.

"In that case," Siddiq begins calmly, "I think you should get an ultrasound. It won't tell us much this early in the game, but we'll be able to confirm. It'll certainly tell us more than an expired pregnancy test."

He laughs once, awkwardly, and she forces herself to lift one corner of her mouth in what she hopes at least slightly resembles some sort of grin.

"The only thing is, the sonogram machine is still at The Hilltop, from the end of Maggie's pregnancy."

She starts to nervously tap her foot on the linoleum floor, creating a soft patting noise that seems to boom in the still infirmary. She'd known this. She'd known this, but she'd been trying to avoid the thought.

She supposes she can't anymore, though.

"When should we leave?" she questions.

"Well, there's a few patients here that I sent home today, but I still want to be around for them in case they get more symptoms, and to do a routine check-in tomorrow," he tells her hesitantly. "Enid knows how to use the equipment. She actually did Maggie's last ultrasound by herself. So I was wondering if it would be okay if you went with someone else, and let Enid do it, while I stay here."

She hates that idea, actually. She just wants to involve as few people as possible, and she'd rather not tell anyone else yet - especially people like Enid, and inevitably, Maggie, who knew him and knew the two of them together and know now the whole gravity of the situation.

But the stubborn leader in her is telling her to stop being selfish and let him take care of the community, so she reluctantly agrees.

"Sure," she says. "I'll ask Aaron."

Siddiq nods in thanks. She turns towards the door, but Siddiq grabs her elbow before she can leave.

"Michonne?"

She glances at his hand on her arm, and then looks up at him. He's staring back at her, his expression gentle, but adamant.

"This is a _good thing_ ," he tells her earnestly. "It might not seem like it right now, but I promise you, it is. And I hope you can see that."

She nods once, and then moves her gaze from Siddiq's face to her stomach. She breathes out, and then rests her right hand against her abdomen.

"I'm trying," she whispers.

* * *

She doesn't ask Aaron.

Instead, she goes to The Hilltop herself, and spends the long, quiet ride trying to clear her head. She feels like she's been constantly spun around in circles for the past couple of weeks, unexpected revelations and emotional highs and lows whirling around her, and now she's so dizzy she can barely stand up.

So she passes the time by listening to the steady plopping of her horse's hooves against the ground, and looking for birds among the trees. She keeps an eye out for walkers, but doesn't encounter any along the way.

When she arrives, Kal opens the gate for her, but doesn't say anything to her as she enters. She doesn't mind. They don't know each other very well, and if she's being honest, she wishes _more_ people would just keep their mouths shut when they saw her, instead of awkwardly stumbling over hellos and stuttering out half-hearted condolences.

She ties up her horse, and then goes straight to the medical trailer, knocking on the door with three, quick raps.

When Enid opens the door, her eyes widen.

"Michonne," she begins breathlessly. "I didn't - "

"Can I come in?" she asks, cutting Enid off.

She doesn't really want anyone to see her here, especially someone familiar enough to her that they greet her and start asking questions. The sooner she gets inside the trailer, the better.

"Sure," Enid says, bobbing her head nervously before stepping aside so Michonne can enter. "I'm not busy."

Michonne waits until she hears Enid close the door to turn to the young woman. She finds her staring down at the floor, shifting from foot to foot. It brings a small frown to her face.

Enid started to act withdrawn around her after Michonne found out she and Carl were out in the woods together with Deanna's walker, that day long ago. It got worse after Carl's death, and it's persisted ever since.

It troubles her, slightly. She knows Enid took the loss of Carl hard, and she hopes the girl is doing alright. But she knows that she's not in a state of mind right now to help anyone, especially with something like coping with lingering grief. So she lets the moment pass.

"So, uh. What can I help you with? Is Siddiq okay?"

She glances up at Michonne, worry starting to etch itself on her face.

"Yes, he's fine," Michonne reassures her quickly. "I went to see him, actually, and he told me I needed you."

"What?" Enid asks, her face scrunching up in confusion. "That doesn't make sense."

"It does. I need…"

She pauses, and sighs, motioning to a white machine tucked in the far left corner of the room.

"I need an ultrasound," she admits hesitantly.

When she looks back to Enid, the girl is gaping at her, and is further away than she was before, as if Michonne's confession had hit her and pushed her backwards.

Michonne stands still and lets Enid collect herself, but when a few moments pass and the girl is still frozen, she speaks up.

"Enid."

"What?" she whispers absently, but then she startles, and shakes her head back and forth. "Sorry. Sorry. I mean, are you sure?"

 _I'm sure_ , she says in her head.

"I guess that's why I'm here," she tells Enid instead. "To make sure."

An abrupt smile appears out of nowhere on Enid's face as she gazes at Michonne.

"Well, let me start up the machine then!" she says, exaggerated enthusiasm coloring her tone. "You can get up on the table."

The preparation for the procedure is done silently. Enid's hands are shaking, and she keeps her eyes on anything that isn't Michonne. Michonne worries her lip between her teeth, and begins to think she should've forced Siddiq to come with her and do this himself.

She lifts up her shirt and Enid squirts a cool gel on her stomach, which sends a shiver through Michonne, and makes Enid mumble a quiet apology. Then, she flips on the ultrasound machine.

Michonne expects Enid to continue not speaking, but to her surprise, Enid takes a deep, slow breath, and then turns around.

"Ready for this?" she asks softly.

Michonne gives her a glum smile, and shrugs her shoulders.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

Michonne loves her baby. _Their_ baby.

Enid places the wand on her stomach and a picture flickers onto the screen of the ultrasound machine. She can't make out anything at first in the sea of blurry black and white in front of her. But after some searching, she sees it. A little shadow near the bottom right corner of the screen, that's just like the one she saw during her first ultrasound with Andre. She sees it, and she knows.

That's them. That's their baby.

 _Their baby._

And an impossibly deep, unendable love washes over her, so immediately that it would knock her off her feet if she were standing. Again, she remembers having the same experience when she saw Andre for the first time, but she'd forgotten what it was like. How fierce it was. How all-consuming and palpable.

The feeling wraps around her, and squeezes. It encases her completely in its warmth. It drowns her. She breathes it in and it fills her lungs.

Love isn't a strong enough word for it. It almost does it a disservice, as lacking as it is. But she doesn't know how else to describe it, so it's what she uses.

She hears Enid talking, vaguely, through her haze of awe and brand-new devotion.

"So, I know it doesn't look like much. And I'm not very good at this, but I think," she tells Michonne, starting to point at the little blur that's a touch darker than the rest.

"That's them," Michonne says, breathless. "That's our baby."

"Yeah," Enid confirms. "I think that's them."

Michonne stares at the screen, mouth slightly open, eyes shining as they fill up with tears. She thinks she could stare at it for the rest of her life.

 _Their baby._

She hears an uneven inhale of breath, somewhere in the corner of her brain. Reluctantly, she tears her eyes from the image on the machine to glance at Enid, and finds her wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"Enid?" she questions.

"Sorry," she blurts out, turning away and shaking her head. "Sorry. Ignore me. It's just…"

"Just what?" Michonne asks again, her curiosity piqued, now.

Enid sighs before looking back at Michonne, and shrugs her shoulders.

"That's Carl's little sister or brother."

Michonne had known this, of course, but she hadn't thought about it consciously until Enid says it. And it makes her heart swell. This baby is a part of all of them.

She reaches out and takes the younger girl's hand.

"Yeah," she says gently. "Yeah, they are."

They're Carl's little sibling. Judith's sister or brother. Her baby. _Rick's_ baby.

 _Their baby._

* * *

She asks Enid to print her out two pictures, and then tells her she'd talk to Siddiq when she returned to Alexandria to see when her next ultrasound would be. She hugs her, and then leaves the trailer to go get her horse.

She strokes the horse's nose and then runs her fingers through its mane, and is about to untie the reins, when she hears her name called from behind.

"Michonne."

She recognizes Maggie's voice, immediately, and closes her eyes, deciding not to turn around right away.

Maggie has been _strange_ around her since Rick's death. She was there with her in the very immediate aftermath - when the bridge exploded, right in front of their eyes. Maggie was there to grab her to prevent her from running towards the fire, to try and whisper futile words of sympathy and comfort in her ear as she watched her entire life burn before her, and to hold her as she screamed and screamed, and then to hold her on their way back to Alexandria, as she stared into the nothingness of her future with dull, tired eyes.

But after that, something changed. Maggie became almost wooden when they were anywhere near each other. She stayed with her and Judith that first night, but left after that. She attended the memorial service for Rick held the following day. (They were holding off on a funeral, until they located his body, not knowing at that point they never would.) But Maggie didn't stand next to her. She didn't hold her hand, as Carol did. She didn't say anything, as Siddiq did, as Aaron and King Ezekiel did, along with numerous others. She stood with a group of people from The Hilltop, and stared off into space, a blank expression on her face.

And after the service, she left to go back home straight away, without a word or embrace to Michonne. Without a goodbye. Without even a glance in her direction.

At first, Michonne thought it had something to do with her trip to see Negan, or with her lingering displeasure with her and Rick's original decision. But she had given Maggie what she wanted - she'd let her see the man after her initial resistance. She'd given her the keys to the cell and watched her walk into it with her crowbar in hand.

But Maggie hadn't taken her chance. Something made her change her mind.

Then, she considered that Maggie only still held anger for Rick, and for his deciding to keep Negan alive without consulting others. But she saw that Maggie was mourning. It was obvious the woman was _sad_ \- she wept when it happened, she wiped away tears at the memorial service, and there was no trace of the bitterness that had accompanied her to Alexandria only a day before.

It was something else. Something was _wrong_ with Maggie, but she couldn't figure out what it was.

Michonne hadn't seen her for weeks. Not since the memorial service.

Not until the moment she turns around.

Maggie stands several yards from her, a cautious look on her face, her palms turned upright at her sides, as if she doesn't know what to do with her hands.

"Hi, Michonne," she murmurs.

Michonne doesn't answer. Instead, she peers at her friend curiously, lips pressed together. Maggie is the one that has been avoiding interaction between them - she'll have to be the one to make the first move.

"Enid came and told me you were here. She wouldn't say why, though."

Maggie looks down, and twists her right boot into the dirt.

"I was wondering why you didn't come to see me."

"Recently, it hasn't seemed like you wanted to see me," Michonne tells her bluntly.

"I do," Maggie answers, snapping her head up to gaze at Michonne, her eyes beginning to shine. "I do. I'm sorry I haven't come to see you and Judith in Alexandria. I am. It's been…"

She trails off, and Michonne doesn't say anything in response. She simply watches Maggie turn away and rub a hand over her face, before turning back and sighing. She takes a moment's hesitation before speaking again.

"Did you...ever find - "

"No," Michonne barks, cutting her off abruptly, and she immediately grows upset with Maggie, for making her remember things she doesn't want to think of. For reminders that make her stomach churn and limbs shake, and cause her heart to bleed even more than it already is.

He was taken from her. In _every single way_.

"I'm sorry, Michonne. I'm _so_ sorry. When Glenn died, if I hadn't had his..."

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, and shakes her head.

"I would've - "

"Is this all we're gonna talk about?" Michonne interrupts. "Because I don't want to talk about it. So if it is, I'm going to leave now."

"No!" Maggie exclaims, taking a step towards her. "No, of course not. I'm sorry. It's insensitive of me to even bring it up, I know. It's just been...weighing on me, I guess. But we won't talk about it anymore. Of course not."

"Then what do you want?" Michonne asks, growing tired of this conversation. Of its odd lulls and lurches.

"I was actually wondering if I was allowed to know why you're here."

"I'm pregnant," she answers quickly, her tone not holding an ounce of emotion. It's as if she's reading an instruction manual, or the back of a box of food.

Because she just wants to _leave_ , and she doesn't have the energy or patience to evade Maggie's questioning. So she tells her, without any joy or any sadness.

Her statement makes Maggie rock back on her heels, and she stares at Michonne with wide eyes and an open mouth, like she's just seen someone get hit by a bus. But she doesn't say anything, and Michonne only waits a few moments before turning back around and starting to untie her horse again.

She hears a whisper from behind her.

"It's my fault."

She turns around abruptly, looking at Maggie with a furrowed brow and hard eyes.

"What did you just say?"

"It's my fault," Maggie repeats more loudly, as tears begin to fall down her face.

"What are you talking about?" Michonne asks, her voice low.

"What I said to you."

Michonne automatically knows what Maggie means. She knows she's talking about her words when they were arguing about Maggie seeing Negan in his cell.

 _If you had a child to raise alone…_

That statement was a morbid premonition, she supposes. Because she has one, now. Soon, she'll have two.

The words haunt her. The fact that when they were said, she was in the process of losing him, cuts across her skin in quiet moments late at night. They _hurt_ her, but they're not the reason Rick is gone. They're not enough for Maggie to avoid her like she has been.

She keeps staring at Maggie, her eyes beginning to squint in her confusion.

"What you said was a shitty coincidence, but that's not the reason he's gone."

"That's not it," Maggie says. "That's not why it's… I'm tryin'..."

Michonne's face relaxes as the first bits of realization start to click into place. Bringing up what she said - this whole conversation - has been Maggie's way to avoid what she really needs to say.

"It's my fault."

"Maggie," Michonne begins, "I can't figure out what you're trying to tell me, but you're taking a hell of a long time to get there, and it's getting late. I want to be back to Alexandria before dark, and I'm _tired_ , so if you could just say what you want to say - "

"It's my fault he's dead!"

Maggie nearly shouts this, and Michonne catches a few people throwing curious glances their way, but it doesn't phase Maggie. Words start spilling out of her, almost faster than Michonne can take them in.

"Daryl and me, we've been working together this whole time. We both wanted Negan dead, so we started puttin' together a plan to let us see it through. The people from Oceanside were the ones killing the Saviors that went missing. Me and him, we found out - but we let it go. And that ended up causin' the fights, which started attracting the herd in the direction of the camp. And that day I decided to go to Alexandria, Daryl knew I was goin'. So when Rick said he was going back to Alexandria, Daryl offered him a ride on his bike to get him there quicker, but he took him the wrong way. That's why Rick was even near that herd to begin with.

"So it's my fault. And I'm so, so sorry. If I could take it back, I would in a second. And Daryl would, too. But I can't. And I needed to tell you. I had to tell you."

Maggie finishes, and a heavy silence falls over the two of them. Like a blanket weighed down by rocks, that covers their mouths and noses, and smothers them.

Michonne doesn't know what to say. She feels numb - like she's experienced so many body blows the past few weeks, that when a new one comes, she simply absorbs it like a sponge. Adds it to her collection of things to be angry about, and sad about.

Maggie's revelation will hit her eventually, of course. Sometime in the next few days, when she's alone and the world around her is still, it will make her cry, or scream, or do some combination of both. And then she'll cry about the rest of the things in her collection, one by one until she's run out of tears for the day.

But for now, she feels numb, as if her consciousness or spirit or soul has abandoned her body, and left behind only blood and bones and flesh.

"Michonne, I'm _so sorry_."

"I'm gonna leave," she breathes, and Maggie nods.

"Okay."

"I'm gonna leave, right now."

She mounts her horse, and the gates are opened for her. Before she rides away, she turns her head back towards Maggie.

"Don't come to Alexandria unless I tell you to."

Maggie nods again.

Michonne looks forward, and she finally leaves.

* * *

She doesn't go back to Alexandria. Not straight away.

Instead, she goes to the bridge. And when she gets there, she ties up her horse, finds the same spot she went when she told him the news of her pregnancy, and sits down.

She doesn't say anything for a few minutes. She just listens to the sound of the woods around her - to birds singing, to the rushing water of the creek before her. Such normal sounds. Normal sounds, in a place where something so immensely significant to her life occurred.

It seems wrong.

But nature goes on. It always goes on, no matter what happens around it or within it.

She'll have to as well, she supposes. But for now, she sits, and closes her eyes.

"I saw our baby today."

A small smile comes to her lips when she thinks about the image on the screen.

"They're beautiful," she tells him. "They're already so beautiful."

She opens up her eyes, and turns her head up towards the sky.

"I wish you could've been there," she whispers. "More than anything in the world, I wish you could've been there."

She pauses for a moment, just listens again. It's like she's waiting for an answer. For him to come to her, and breathe in her ear.

 _I was there. I saw them, too._

It's impossible. She knows it's impossible.

She brings her head back down, and begins to dig in her pack. When she finds what she's looking for, she grabs it gingerly, and pulls it out.

"It's kind of stupid, I guess. But I...I brought you a picture of them."

She stares at the two pictures of her ultrasound, her heart swelling. She places one back into her pack, and then looks around.

There's a tree a handful of feet behind her. She turns around and crawls towards it. When she gets to its trunk, she digs around in the dirt and weeds with her fingers until she finds a small stone.

She places the picture on the ground at the base of the tree's trunk, and then gently sets the stone on top of it, to hold it in place.

"I know it's stupid," she murmurs. "But I wanted you to have one. I just...I thought you should have one."

She runs the tip of her index finger over the little shadow on the photo.

 _Their baby._

"I love them so much," she says to him. "I already love them so, _so much_. More than my own life. And...I know that wherever you are, you love them the same way."

She breathes, in and out, and then kisses two of her fingers, and touches them to their little shadow.

"Our baby," she whispers.

 _Their baby._

* * *

She gets to Alexandria just as the sun is setting, filling the sky with different shades of pink and purple and orange.

As she walks home, she passes the cemetery. When she looks over, she finds Daryl standing there, at Carl's grave. They've put a marker there for Rick now, too.

Seeing him makes her pause. After what Maggie told her, it makes her pause.

She tells herself to go home. To ignore him. To reunite with Judith and spend the rest of the evening with her daughter.

But she turns towards the cemetery.

Daryl glances in her direction as she approaches, and nods in acknowledgement. She stops and stands next to him, and they both stare down at the graves of their family members.

"Maggie told me," she says finally.

Daryl doesn't answer, so she continues.

"She told me what the two of you were doing, and planning. About Oceanside, too. And she told me that you didn't take him back to Alexandria."

She hears him inhale.

"'Chonne," he mumbles.

But she doesn't stay to hear what he has to say. She walks away, and goes home.

And when Daryl leaves to look for Rick's body a few days later, and doesn't return, she doesn't go out to look for him.

* * *

 **A/N:** I don't really know how I feel about this chapter. I feel like plot-driven stories are not my strongsuit, and I do better with expositional, introspective, meta, character-driven stuff, which is one of the reasons I was hesitant to write this in the first place. I'd love to know what you thought of it.

Hopefully I'll see you next week! *crosses fingers*

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	3. i'm holding a heart here in my hand

**Author's Note:** Hi! Long time, no see. Sorry it's taken me weeks and weeks to update. But I hope you enjoy this chapter I finally have for you.

This chapter covers a large span of time, just an FYI.

The title of this chapter comes from the song "Holding a Heart" by Toby Lightman. Check it out if you haven't!

* * *

 **i'm holding a heart here in my hand**

"Hey."

It's raining today. But the canopy of tree leaves above her reduces the precipitation to a modest, misting drizzle. It doesn't bother her.

"I'm here. I guess you already knew that, though. You're here, too. I...I know you are."

She takes a shaky breath, digs her fingers into the damp earth below her.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here since I showed you the picture. I was trying - I, I thought that I had to...move on, or something. Not forget you. I'll never do that. I never want to do that. But I guess I thought that I needed - that I _had to_...I…"

She laughs, once, and drops her head to her chest.

"I don't really know what I thought."

A silence captures her tongue. As if she's waiting for him to answer her. For him to make sense of the jumbled mess in her head. To help her, as he always did.

The rain pit-patters on the leaves above, the river flows in front of her, and she waits.

But no help comes.

"I missed you. I miss you, always. Constantly. I keep thinking that one day I'm going to wake up, and it's not going to hurt as much. That it'll alleviate itself, even just the tiniest bit. It doesn't, though. It's just as bad as the first day. It's like I'm watching that damn explosion on loop."

She tilts her head to the side, and lets out a quick breath.

"You know what, though? I don't mind it. And I don't want it to go away. I know it feels like I can't breathe, sometimes, but it's proof. Proof that you were real, and you were here. Proof that I love you. And if pain is what I get to have, in place of you, then so be it. I'd rather have something left of you, than nothing."

A roll of thunder rings out. She looks at her horse over her shoulder, the animal shifting back and forth restlessly. It's going to storm. She needs to head back soon.

She turns back around, and reaches into her pack.

"I brought you something."

She holds the little black-and-white photo in front of her. She can't help the smile that begins to turn up her lips.

"Our little shadow isn't just a shadow anymore."

She traces the shape of the baby over the shiny, smooth paper.

"They don't look _quite_ human yet. More like a little alien. Just as beautiful as ever, of course."

She stares at the photo a moment longer, before getting up and walking to the base of the tree where she left the last ultrasound picture. There, she finds it, dirty and weathered. She knows no one has touched it since she placed it there.

It doesn't matter. She doesn't care. It's his, and this new one is, too. She printed them for him, brought them to him, and they're _his_.

So she places it down over the old photograph, and anchors it down with a stone.

Another peal of thunder sounds. She hears her horse whinny loudly.

She walks back towards the river, and stops where she'd been crouching a moment ago.

"I have to go now, but I'll be back sooner this time. I promise."

She closes her eyes, and wraps her arms around herself.

"Goodbye, Rick."

She stays in place for another minute, then secures her pack and katana around her, and goes to leave. She pets her horse's nose in slow strokes to soothe her, and then mounts the animal. Before she prompts the horse to move, she turns her head back towards the river, and the clearing.

"I love you. I love you so much."

* * *

"There's a baby in there."

She feels a tiny finger pressing into her abdomen, and looks away from where she's chopping up apples to find Judith pointing at her belly, her eyes full of a mix that's equal-parts wonder and confusion. The little girl's fascination with her ever-growing stomach has been endlessly amusing, and Michonne smiles gently at her, nodding her head in affirmation.

"Yes, there is a baby in there."

"Will Baby come out soon?"

"Let's hope not."

"Why?" Judith asks, a whining impatience clear in her voice. Ever since the pregnancy, and what it would mean for their tiny family, had been explained to her, Judith had made it very clear that she wanted to meet her new brother or sister _now_ , and being made to wait all those weeks and months was an absolutely _preposterous_ concept.

"Because," Michonne begins, for an innumerable time, "Baby's not done growing yet. They need to stay in there and get big and healthy before they come out to see us."

Judith humphs in disappointment, her little hands curling into fists. She sighs heavily - with a drama that only a four-year-old can properly convey - and climbs up on one of the stools by the kitchen island. For a few minutes, the only sound is Michonne's knife hitting the cutting board over and over as she continues cutting up fruit, Judith watching and stealing a slice of apple every so often.

"Momma?" she asks finally.

"Yes, little bird?"

"Will Baby have a daddy?"

Her hand holding the knife slips as the question hits her. She cuts her finger, but she hardly notices as she falls into some sort of emotionless stupor brought on by the little girl's inquiry, the feelings it stirs inside her mingling together and overloading her heart until it seems to her that she's off alone somewhere, wrapped up in a thick, gray, lonely fog.

"Momma, you're bleedin'."

Judith's next words startle her from her trance, and she jumps infinitesimally before looking down and finding a sizeable spot of blood marring the light-brown wood of the cutting board. She mumbles a quiet _shit_ under her breath before jogging over to the sink and grabbing a towel as she turns on the water and rinses her finger.

An irrational part of her wants to be mad at Judith for asking such a question. For _anyone_ even thinking that, somehow, their new addition would be _fatherless_ , that she would allow her child to grow up without the knowledge and awareness of the incomparable, amazing man who helped make them, who wanted them and dreamed them up in his head and loved the mere possibility of them more than words can say. That she wouldn't tell stories of his valor and his leadership and his sacrifice, and of his heart and his warmth and his soul. Stories of the man that saved them in every possible way, over and over again, before they even existed.

But Judith isn't anyone. Judith is a child - _her_ child - who lost her father. Who lost one of the fundamental pillars of her world.

And it's as she turns the water off, and wraps the towel around her injured finger, that she realizes she's never asked Judith an important question.

She feels a tug at her pantleg. When she looks down, she meets Judith's wide, worried eyes staring up at her.

"You okay, Momma?"

"Yeah, baby," Michonne breathes. "Yeah, I just...cut my finger. But I'm fine."

She takes a breath and closes her eyes to try and clear her head, before crouching down so that she's eye-level with her daughter. Judith still looks concerned, and Michonne takes her little hands in her larger, uninjured one.

"Judy," she starts quietly. "You know that you still have a daddy, right?"

Judith doesn't answer right away. Instead, she cuts her eyes to the floor, and the frown on her face deepens as she thinks.

"My daddy got hurt real bad and couldn't live anymore, so he had to leave Momma and me and go with Carl and my first mommy."

A shaky breath moves through the little girl's lungs after she's done reciting her own version of the words Michonne's had to speak to her over and over again since Rick's death. When she looks up at her mother again, her eyes are full of tears, and Michonne's heart breaks.

She reaches out, and cups Judith's cheek.

"Oh, my little bird."

She stands and throws the towel in the sink, checking to make sure her finger has stopped bleeding, before picking the girl up, carrying her into the living room as Judith burrows her head in the crook of her neck. She sits them down on the couch and cradles Judith to her chest, pressing her cheek to the top of her head and smoothing her hair.

"Baby, you still have a daddy," she whispers.

"But he's not here," Judith counters firmly, and Michonne can feel tears begin to soak into her skin.

"Well. He's not here on the couch. He's not here when we eat dinner, and he's not here at bedtime. But he's still _here_. With us."

Judith sits up, and roughly wipes at her eyes before looking at her with a helpless expression.

"I can't see him. I can't hear him. Where is he?" she pleads.

"He's still inside us," Michonne tells her, her own tears beginning to cloud her vision. "Just like Carl is, remember? We love Daddy. We still love him so, _so_ much, right?"

Judith nods vigorously.

"Right," Michonne affirms. "So as long as we love him, he's here with us. He's just in our hearts, instead of right next to us. He lives in there."

She covers the little girl's chest with her hand, lets her fingers rest right over her beating heart.

"And as long as he's in there - as long as we love him - he'll _always_ be with us. Always. No one can ever take him away from you. _No one_. Not ever."

Judith brings her hand up, and rests it over Michonne's.

"So you still have Daddy," Michonne assures her. "And Momma still has Daddy, too. And when Baby comes, they'll have Daddy."

"But Baby's never gonna meet Daddy."

"No. You're right - Baby won't know Daddy. So you and me, we have to tell them about Daddy. Just like me and Daddy tell you about Carl, we have to tell Baby about Daddy. We'll tell him who he was, and what he looked like. What he sounded like. What he liked, and what he didn't like. All his favorite things. All the stuff he used to do, and all the stuff he used to say."

"The stories he used to read me!" Judith chimes in, her frown slowly giving way to a small smile. "And how his hugs were so warm. And how he was so good at hide and seek, and how he always gave you so many kisses. And how he snored when he was sleeping. And, oh, I'll paint Baby a picture of Daddy, too!"

"See? Baby will have lots of ways to know Daddy. And then Daddy will live in Baby's heart, too."

Judith grins, and then lays back down onto Michonne's chest. The two sit there quietly for a few minutes, Michonne still playing with the little girl's long, golden hair.

"I miss Daddy," Judith says eventually. "But I'm happy he's still here. I'm happy he's in our hearts."

One tear manages to escape the corner of Michonne's eye before she closes her lids.

"Yeah," she murmurs, squeezing her daughter closer as a bittersweet smile turns up her lips. "I'm glad he's in our hearts, too."

* * *

"They started kicking."

She sits on the bank of the river, her legs crossed in front of her. It's sunny this time. An unusually warm autumn afternoon that hearkens back to the days of late summer. The rays shine down between the trees, through the gaps between branches where leaves have already begun to fall, and warm the bare skin of her shoulders.

"It doesn't really feel like kicking. It's more like...fluttering. I remember it being more like kicking with Andre. This one is more like butterflies. Or popping. Like popcorn."

She runs her hand over her rounded stomach. It's becoming harder to hide now, even with all the baggy shirts she's come to wearing. She can feel the people of Alexandria whispering behind her back as she walks down the street.

"Judith _loves_ it. She was finally able to feel it about a week ago, and she _freaked_ , Rick. I can still see her face - her eyes were so wide, and her mouth was in a little 'o'. It was adorable. And now, she's obsessed. In the evenings, we sit on the couch and she lays there with her head in my lap and just waits for them to move."

She smiles fondly.

"She's gonna be such a good big sister. She already kisses my stomach every morning and every night, and tells me that she's saying 'good morning' and 'goodnight'. She tells me how much she loves them all the time. And at night, when we're there on the couch, she's started telling them stories. Some are the ones we've told her before. Some are ones she just makes up. Most of them are about you."

She bites her lip, as tears begin to well up in her eyes.

"I've started telling them about you, too. I mean, I don't even know how well they can hear me yet. I don't remember from Andre, and I've been meaning to ask Siddiq. But I figure it can't be too early for them to start to hear about you. It would never be too early. Because, _God_ , Rick, I just want them to _know you_. Everything about you. Who you were. And I want them to love you, Rick. As much as Judith does. As much as I do. So even if it's just muffled sounds to them, at least those sounds are about you."

She closes her eyes as she speaks. Pictures his face and tries to imagine he's there in front of her.

"And I know this is stupid, Rick, but when I talk about you, I swear to you that they always seem to move around more. It's like they know who it is I'm talking about, or something. Like I said, I know that's silly. It's impossible. And it's probably just wishful thinking. Me putting unrelated things together and making something out of nothing. But that's what it feels like."

She takes a shaky breath, and opens up her eyes. She goes to speak again, but stops when she feels a popping sensation over and over again in her belly.

Like popcorn.

And she almost laughs.

"See what I mean? They're kicking for you."

And they keep kicking. One corner of her mouth turns up.

"They're kicking just for their Daddy."

She rests her hand on her stomach, over their baby. The movement inside her doesn't stop, and she lets herself smile.

* * *

She never formally announces her pregnancy to the residents of Alexandria. She just stops trying to hide it; she wears whatever she wants, tells the few who know for sure that they don't have to keep it a secret anymore, and starts answering any questions about it as honestly and openly as she can manage.

She worries at first that the news will only increase and prolong the meandering sympathy so many still harbor for her. That the polite smiles and whispered words of generic comfort that plagued her would never end, as she went from widow to widow with child.

And while her concern is proven to be valid with some, with most she's pleasantly surprised. Interactions seem to change from being about death to being about new life. They go from focusing on the past to focusing on the imminent future.

Most people stop talking to her about Rick, and start talking to her about their baby. And for that, she is glad. For now, at least, she'd rather remember Rick only with the people who knew him best - who understood him and respected him in the way he deserved.

She finds herself sitting next to Aaron one quiet afternoon, at the playground in Alexandria, the two of them looking on as Judith and Gracie play. The lightest dusting of snow had fallen the night before - the first snow of the season - and the girls are attempting to build a snowman. There's not nearly enough accumulation, and their efforts are resulting in a tiny, abstract sculpture mostly made of grass and dirt, but Judith and Gracie are having fun anyways, and that's what matters.

She and Aaron have been mostly quiet, other than exchanging pleasantries upon meeting and an offhand comment here and there about the construction project going on in front of them.

"You've really popped this past week or so," Aaron tells her.

She sighs playfully, and looks down at her stomach, sticking out through the opening in her unzipped coat, covered up with the biggest, warmest sweater she could find in all of the ASZ. It's true; she feels like her stomach has at least doubled in size in the last few days.

"Judith keeps making fun of me for waddling around. She's always saying, 'You walk so funny, Momma! Why are you walkin' so funny?'"

The two adults chuckle together.

"She's excited for the baby, I assume? I mean, whenever her and Gracie play together, afterwards, all Gracie talks about is _Judith's baby_ , _Judith's baby._ "

"Oh, so she's taking all the credit for my hard work now?" Michonne asks skeptically, and Aaron laughs. "That little stinker. But yes. Excited is an understatement. I told her we only had a couple more months to go the other day, and I kid you not, she literally fell out of her chair, she was so thrilled."

"Only a couple more months? Really?"

"I'm thirty-two weeks. Eight weeks left. Siddiq wants to send me to Hilltop for one more ultrasound before the weather gets bad, just to make sure everything's okay one more time."

"Can you even ride a horse right now?"

" _Definitely_ not. I will be riding in a cart. We have one more big trade to make with them before winter, so I'm just tagging along with the group."

Aaron hums, and the two go back to watching Judith and Gracie. They're quiet for a few minutes, and then Aaron speaks.

"And how are you?"

She sighs slowly, and her heartbeat speeds up.

"I don't know," she admits.

She knows he's not just asking the question on a surface level - if she has any heartburn today, or an upset stomach, if she woke up on the right or wrong side of the bed this morning, if her week has been eventful, what she's planning on doing for the rest of the day. He's asking about something deeper.

He's asking about Rick.

Aaron is one of the people she allows herself to reminisce with. She feels a certain kinship with him - with his loss of Eric, and his parenting of Gracie. She thinks it's why she allows herself to be so honest with him. And he takes advantage of that, to her benefit. He checks up on her in a way that, incredibly, doesn't irritate her, or make her feel like a child. And he is always straight with her, in kind.

So she allows herself to continue.

"It's like I'm stuck," she whispers. "Just stuck in this nightmare full of pain and longing, and missing him. And I keep thinking that one day I'm going to wake up and it's going to feel better. Even the littlest bit. Not because I love him any less, or miss him any less. But just because...time. 'Time heals all wounds,' and all that sort of stuff. Everyday, though, I wake up, and it hurts just as much as it did the day before. _More_ , sometimes. And I find myself sitting there every once in a while, wondering if it's ever going to stop. Or if the rest of my life is just gonna... _be_ like this.

"And then _this,_ " she continues, motioning to her stomach. "I don't even...I don't even know what to say. I mean, I love them, and I _want_ them, more than anything. But it was supposed to be _ours._ This whole experience was supposed to be between him and me. When we decided we wanted to try for a baby, there wasn't a single part of me that ever imagined I'd end up in this position alone. Even in the world we live in, I never even considered it. It just wasn't...fathomable to me, I guess. But here I am. And now, every time I get excited about something, I just end up thinking about how he won't be here to experience it. How he'll never get to hold them. He won't get to see their first steps, or hear their first words. He'll never get to rock them to sleep. He'll never get to hear them call him _Daddy._ "

"It's like you're constantly pulled in two different directions," Aaron interjects.

She nods, wiping at the wetness that's gathered in her eyes.

"Yeah. And sometimes I'm not quite sad, but I'm never fully happy. I never get to experience anything fully, because grief is always clouding it. But at the same time, I feel guilty for wanting to feel better, because then I feel like I'm pushing the memory of him away."

"Rick would want you to be happy," Aaron tells her immediately, urgency clear in his voice. "Even if being happy meant you forgot him altogether - which, I promise you, you _never will_ \- he would want that for you."

"The rational part of me knows that," Michonne assures him, "but I can't stop myself from feeling like I'm betraying him."

She stops, and takes a breath. The baby shifts inside her. She laces her fingers together, and then rests them on the roundest part of her belly.

"So I guess, a large part of me doesn't know what I'm doing. Doesn't know what I'm going to do," she confesses quietly. _Hesitantly_. She doesn't like admitting to being not in control, but if she's being truthful, she hasn't had anything together since that bridge blew up in front of her.

A silence falls over the two of them. Judith drops a handful of snow on top of Gracie's head, and the two girls' giggles fill their ears.

"There are no easy answers," Aaron muses.

Michonne glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He's slouched over, elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands.

He says, "I wish there were, and I wish I had them for you. But there aren't. Though, I will tell you that it _does_ get better. Maybe hearing that doesn't really help anything, or maybe it's not what you want to hear right now. But it gets better. It's slow, admittedly. So slow that you might not even realize it's happening. Then, one day you'll be lying in bed, about to fall asleep, and it'll dawn on you that you didn't cry today. Or maybe even all week. Or you'll think of something Judith told you, and you'll remember that it made you laugh. I mean, _really_ laugh. It's things like that. Stuff that you wouldn't have been able to do a month ago. And don't get me wrong, you'll still have bad moments, and awful days. That's just the nature of losing the person you love most in the world. Like with me - there are some mornings when I wake up and I miss Eric so much that it feels like I can't breathe. But that's when you have to hold onto those little things."

"I won't forget him?" she breathes.

"You won't forget him."

"Promise me, Aaron," she says sternly, turning in her seat and reaching out, taking his face between her hands and staring directly into his eyes.

Aaron brings his hands up to rest over hers.

"I promise, Michonne," he vows. "You won't forget him. Your heart won't let you."

She's reminded of what she told Judith, all those weeks ago.

 _And as long as he's in there - as long as we love him - he'll always be with us. Always. No one can ever take him away from you. No one. Not ever._

"And the baby," Aaron begins, letting her hands go as they begin to fall from his face. "I know it seems overwhelming right now. When I adopted Gracie, right after Eric died, a large part of me thought I was insane. But she's been the best thing that ever could've happened to me. And I know when this little one comes along, it'll be the same way for you. Every time they laugh, or smile, or, hell, _look at you_ , you'll feel a little piece of your soul being stitched back together.

"And just think," he tells her, his lips lifting into a half smile, "they're a piece of Rick. A living, breathing piece of him that you'll get to hold in your arms every day. Tangible, physical proof of your love, and all that you meant to each other."

She stares down at her stomach, running her hand over it, and a tear falls from her eye.

"Momma!" Judith yells then, and Michonne looks up in time to see the four-year-old barreling towards her, an excited smile on her face. She crashes into her legs, hugging them, and then crawls up on the bench, settling herself between Michonne and Aaron. Gracie comes behind her, and crawls into her father's lap.

"Do you like our snowman, Momma?"

She lifts her eyes to look at the girls' creation. As predicted, he's more brown than white, with only one arm and no nose, standing lopsided, with Gracie's purple scarf thrown over his head haphazardly, and one of Judith's pink gloves stuck precariously on the end of his stick-arm.

And through her tears, Michonne laughs.

She _really laughs_. And then she wraps her arm around her daughter's waist, and pulls her into her side.

"Yeah, Judy," she murmurs. "I love it."

* * *

"It's snowing today."

The riverbank is covered with a thin blanket of white, the water covered sporadically with chunks of ice. She stands today instead of sits, bundled in her fluffy winter coat. She can't manage to zip it over her belly anymore, even if she wanted to.

She glances quickly over her shoulder. The group she traveled to The Hilltop with is just at the edge of her vision, talking among themselves. Thankfully, none of them are very close to her or her family, and none of them realize the significance of where they are. Or of the alternate route she directed them on to get them here.

"I can't stay long this time. I'm not alone. I can't ride a horse at this point, so I can't come by myself. So I'm with a group, on our way back from Hilltop. I told them I had to pee, so I have to be quick. But I _had_ to see you. I had to."

She reaches into her pack.

"Enid gave me my last ultrasound today."

She pulls out her final photo for him.

"Our _they_ is a _he_ , Rick. We're having a boy."

She can't say it without getting tears in her eyes. They fall down her cheeks, sting her skin as the cold catches them.

She stares at the picture, at their little baby boy. Her third son. His second.

"I'm gonna name him after you."

She smiles as she thinks of it.

"Rick Grimes, Jr.. Rick, Jr.. Is that cheesy? I don't care. We both know that you were always a little cheesy."

She turns slowly, and walks toward their tree. With some effort, she manages to kneel down. She brushes away the snow with her hand, until she finds the other two photos. She places a kiss onto the shiny surface of the new one she holds, and then lays it down on top of the last one. Before she anchors it with the rock, she traces her thumb over his head, and his tiny feet.

"I think we'll call him RJ."

* * *

 **A/N:** I almost just ended the whole story here, to be honest. But I do have more of this to tell, so lucky for you guys (or not lucky, depending how you feel about it, lmao) there are a handful of chapters left. I hope to have the next ones out much sooner than I had this one out!

I hope you liked this chapter! Let me know what you thought in the reviews.

Also, I just made a fandom Twitter account a few days ago. Follow me (lizjenningss) if you want to! All I do is cry over Richonne.

Thank you for reading, and hope to see you soon!

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	4. dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:** Hello, my dears! Here is chapter four of A Slight Return Home. I hope you like it!

* * *

 **dream a little dream of me**

She bursts into tears the first time she sees him.

He's little, he's wrinkly, and he's covered in goop as Siddiq lifts him up to her after the final push. Siddiq cuts the umbilical cord and wipes him off quickly, then checks his vitals before laying the baby on her chest. His eyes are shut, fists closed tight, and his screams echo throughout the room. He's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, and she cries.

He's _here_. He's finally here, but Rick is not, and somehow, she's never been more happy or more sad at any point in her life.

She cradles him close, and after a few moments, he quiets down, and nuzzles his face into her chest. She smiles through her tears, strokes her hand over his head. She can already see the scant hair he has trying to form into curls, and her heart breaks.

She can't tear her gaze from him, so she doesn't notice that Siddiq has finished cleaning up and is now standing next to her until he speaks.

"He's beautiful, Michonne."

She sniffles, and nods.

"He is."

"Do you have a name picked out for him yet?"

She hasn't told anyone except Rick what his name will be, up to this point. It had been just between the two of them. Something they could share in.

"I'm going to name him Rick."

Siddiq doesn't answer right away, but when he does, she swears she can hear a tremble in his voice.

"That's a good name."

He stretches in her arms, and nuzzles his face into her chest again. She smiles softly.

"Yeah. It is."

* * *

He doesn't sleep well for the first few months.

She supposes that few infants sleep particularly _well_ in the initial weeks following birth, but she doesn't remember it being this difficult with Andre, and Judith could sleep through _anything_. Siddiq agrees that his problems seem a touch above average, but assures her that it's nothing to worry about; some babies sleep through the night within days, while others take much more time.

As a result, though, many of her nights are nearly sleepless. Her leadership takes a temporary hit, only because she is so _exhausted_ so much of the time, but many people - Rosita, Father Gabriel, Aaron, among others - step up to help in her absence. And she firmly assures the community that she will be back to full capacity once RJ starts sleeping better.

For now, her focus is on her baby, along with Judith. Judith, who loves her baby brother so dearly already. Who showers him with soft kisses all over his tiny face, who constantly talks and coos at him in her sweet, high voice, who loves to sit next to Michonne on the couch and cradle their new bundle in her small arms. Judith, who handles the many changes going on around her with a grace that eclipses her young age. The girl never complains - not when their family routine changes so drastically, not when her mother's attention must so often draw towards RJ instead of her, and not when her baby brother's cries keep her awake at night.

On one particularly noisy evening, Judith wanders into her mother's room, blanket clutched in one hand and stuffed rabbit in the other. Michonne looks at her little girl as she walks around the room, gently bouncing RJ as he cries. Judith's eyes are sleepy, and there's a frown on her face, as she crawls on top of the bed, but she doesn't say anything.

"What's up, little bird?" Michonne asks.

"Baby brother is keeping me up," she answers simply.

Michonne sighs, and then sits down on the edge of the bed. She shifts RJ to one arm so she can run her hand over Judith's hair.

"I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay. He's just a little baby," she mumbles tiredly, as she sets down her bunny and rubs at her eyes.

Michonne can't help the warmth that fills her heart, and she smiles at her daughter.

"You're so smart, Judy. And kind."

She's someone her father would be proud of. The thought threatens to make tears well up in her eyes.

Judith doesn't respond. Instead, she lays back on the two pillows at the head of the bed. Michonne watches her for a moment, and then decides to lay down next to her. She crawls over carefully, still holding RJ, and settles down next to her daughter, their heads resting together. She lays the still- whining baby on her chest.

The two of them are quiet for a few minutes, but then, Judith turns and looks at her mother.

"Did you try to sing to him?"

"No, I didn't," Michonne says, shaking her head.

Judith pauses before speaking.

"You should sing him Daddy's song. That always helps me go to sleep."

* * *

 _She heard him for the first time one evening long ago. Before the war started. Before Negan. Before the two of them together, even._

 _She had been cleaning up from dinner, but now that she was finished, she decided to shower and get to bed early - a rare opportunity in the sort of world they lived in. She said goodnight to Carl, who was sitting on the couch with a new comic book Glenn had gotten him on a run a few weeks ago. Rick had gone upstairs a while ago with Judith, to put her to sleep. The toddler must've been having a little trouble getting there, since Rick wasn't back yet._

 _She was on her way to the bathroom when she heard a male voice singing. It was so pleasant and melodic that it made her pause. She looked to her left - towards where the sound was coming from - and saw the door to Judith's room, slightly ajar._

 _She knew it was Rick. It had to be Rick. He was the one putting Judith to bed. Plus, Carl was downstairs, and there was no one else in the house. It was Rick._

 _But she still had to check._

 _Gingerly, she backed up a few steps, and moved towards the edge of the hallway, so she could peer through the crack between the wall and the door and see into Judith's bedroom._

 _She saw Rick, standing and swaying back and forth, with his little girl in his arms. She was laying against his chest, eyes closed and mouth open, wearing purple polka-dotted footie pajamas. Michonne could see Rick's mouth moving as he sang. She couldn't quite make out the words, but the tune sounded familiar._

 _She couldn't have stopped the smile that crept onto her face even if she'd tried. She thought of nights spent rocking Andre to sleep in her arms with a sweet song, and the memory didn't make her sad._

 _And then, as suddenly as the sound first permeated her eardrums, it was over. Rick stopped swaying, and approached Judith's crib, gently laying the girl down and bending over to press a soft kiss to her cheek._

" _Goodnight, little bird," he whispered._

 _Her smile grew. And she was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't realize that Rick was approaching until he opened the door to leave the room. They both startled slightly at the sight of each other._

" _Rick," she said._

" _Michonne," he answered, his voice slow as he closed the door behind him. He squinted at her, and tilted his head, like he had a habit of doing. "What are you doing out here?"_

 _She leaned back against the wall, looking away from him. She felt embarrassed, all of a sudden, for snooping on a quiet moment between him and his daughter. She hoped he wouldn't be mad at her._

 _She hated when he was mad at her, or when she was mad at him. It rarely happened now, but when it did, it was like her entire world was off-kilter. Like someone had switched all her rights with her lefts without telling her._

" _I was, uh...I was on my way to take a shower, but I heard someone singing."_

 _He didn't react for a moment, and her heart dropped. But then, he laughed gently, and looked down at the floor as he ran a hand through his curly hair. When he managed to meet her gaze again, she swore she saw a blush covering his cheeks, even in the dim light._

" _You heard that, huh?" he asked._

" _Yeah, I did. And I was curious, so I stopped to listen."_

 _He laughed again, and stared at the ground once more. He seemed almost embarrassed, and she continued quickly in an attempt to reassure him._

" _It was nice," she told him. "I kept listening because it made me happy. To see the two of you like that."_

 _He glanced up at her, looking surprised._

" _It did?"_

 _She nodded. He smiled at her, and this time, it seemed genuine. His eyes brightened, and he seemed pleased, somehow._

" _I'm glad it made you happy," he murmured._

 _They locked eyes, and a beat passed between them. It wasn't quite awkward, but it wasn't comfortable, either. She felt like she was standing on the edge of something high, and her stomach twisted in a way she didn't recognize._

" _May I ask what song you were singing?" she said to him softly._

 _Rick blinked hard twice, his face wearing an expression that she couldn't identify. Then, he smiled, and she felt her whole body relax._

" _Yeah, of course. My older cousin used to babysit me and my brother when we were young. I always had trouble falling asleep when my parents weren't home, so she would come sit with me and sing me songs to try to get me to relax. My favorite was always 'Dream a Little Dream of Me' by The Mamas and the Papas. So when we had Carl, I would sing it to him when I put him to bed. And I started singin' it to Judith back at the prison."_

 _He stopped, and looked at Judith's door, the corner of his lips turning up._

" _She likes it, I think. Even more than Carl did. It always seems to calm her down."_

 _Hearing the title of the song jogged her memory._

" _My grandmother used to play that song," she told him. "The Ella Fitzgerald version, though."_

 _He grinned at her._

" _Somethin' I have in common with the fancy city girl."_

 _She rolled her eyes playfully, and he let out a hushed laugh. He liked to tease her often, about anything. When she told him a bit about her upbringing, he found another target. He always exaggerated their differences, and referred to his as the poor, rural childhood to her more well-to-do, metropolitan upbringing._

" _You're lucky I'm friends with a country bumpkin like you."_

 _Something flashed in his eyes - something almost crestfallen - but before she could even try to decipher it, or ask about it, he laughed again. Then, he cast his eyes towards the floor._

" _Yeah," he whispered. "I'm lucky."_

 _He kept his eyes down, for a moment longer than she expected him to._

" _Rick?"_

 _He immediately brought his gaze back to her, and plastered a smile on his face._

" _Sorry. Just tired."_

" _You gonna go to bed?"_

" _Probably should. Me and Daryl are supposed to go out early tomorrow."_

 _She nodded. Stepping forward, she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then let her fingers trail down his arm before dropping back to her side. She was close enough to him now that she had to look up to make eye contact with him. When she did, he was already staring back at her._

" _Goodnight, Rick," she said gently._

 _His lips turned up into a half smile, and he shifted slightly on his feet, bringing himself even closer to her._

"' _Night, Michonne," he murmured, and there was a lilt to his voice that, again, she couldn't decipher._

 _He'd been different around her the past couple of weeks. Not vastly different. In fact, she probably wouldn't have noticed it if she wasn't so completely in tune with him, always. But she did notice it, and it frustrated her - not because it was a bad different, or anything like that. She just wasn't used to not understanding his moods and actions. Not anymore._

 _Now, though, there always seemed to be a certain edge to him whenever they were together. Especially when they were alone. He would stare at her for a moment too long, and then look away quickly, and he wouldn't meet her gaze again for a few moments. There would be a note in the tone of his voice, or a tiny glint in his eyes, that she hadn't seen before. And sometimes, he almost seemed nervous._

 _He'd never been nervous around her before; he'd been hostile at the prison, distant when they first arrived at Alexandria. But she couldn't remember a time when he'd been nervous._

 _It felt like something was shifting between them, but she didn't know what it was, or why. She'd been meaning to ask him about it, and was tempted to say something now, but she decided to put it off until a different time. He was obviously tired, and she could feel exhaustion from the day's activities begin to seep into her bones, as well._

 _So she began her walk down the hall anew, letting her side brush against his as she passed. When she got to the bathroom door, she paused, and turned back towards him._

 _She found him still in the same position, facing away from her, leaning against the wall outside of Judith's room._

" _Hey, Rick?"_

 _He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at her._

" _Yeah?"_

" _You have a pretty good voice. For a country bumpkin, at least."_

 _He laughed lowly, and again, she saw him blush._

* * *

"Momma?"

Judith's voice breaks Michonne from her reverie. She looks down at her daughter, who's staring up at her with big, hazel eyes, a small frown on her face. She looks a bit nervous, and Michonne knows that's her fault. She encourages mentioning Rick whenever possible in their household, to keep the memory of him potent and vibrant. But, depending on how she's feeling - on how much grief is swallowing her in that day or time - her reactions differ. Sometimes, she and Judith will smile together as they remember. At others, tears well up in her eyes, and some spill over.

Sometimes, she has to leave Judith and go to the next room to let out the sobs collecting in her chest.

And she knows that Judith is waiting, now, for what she'll do next. If she'll laugh, or cry, or even retreat. Michonne's heart breaks, and she quickly moves to reassure the girl.

"I probably can't sing it as good as Daddy did," she tries to joke.

Judith smirks.

"That's okay, Momma. Your voice is pretty, too," she tells her, reaching up and running her small hand over RJ's back.

The corners of Michonne's mouth turn up, and she closes her eyes before letting out a long breath.

 _Stars shining bright above you  
Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you"  
Birds singing in the sycamore tree  
Dream a little dream of me_

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she pauses to clear her throat. As she does, she glances over at Judith, and is startled when she sees a single tear running down her cheek. She sits up abruptly, cradling the baby close as to not jostle him too much.

"Judith?"

"Keep goin'," Judith answers.

"Are you oka-"

"Momma, keep goin'," Judith nearly begs, grabbing onto Michonne's shirt and pulling her back towards the mattress. "Please keep singing, Momma."

Michonne bites her bottom lip as worry churns in her gut, but she relents to Judith's wish and tugging. She lies back down, aligning her face with Judith's and gazing into her shining eyes.

"Keep goin'," the little girl whispers.

 _Say nighty-night and kiss me  
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me  
While I'm alone and blue as can be  
Dream a little dream of me_

Judith scoots closer to her mother, and rests her forehead against hers.

"I miss Daddy."

Another tear falls from her eyes before she closes them. Michonne's heart aches, just as much as it did on her first day without him.

"I miss him too, little bird," Michonne murmurs, taking one of her hands from RJ's back and reaching over to squeeze Judith's shoulder. She reaches up and splays her palm across Michonne's cheek.

They fall silent again, the only sounds in the room coming from RJ's slight whines. Then, Judith opens her eyes.

"Keep singing," she requests again.

 _Stars fading, but I linger on, dear  
Still craving your kiss  
I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear  
Just saying this_

 _Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you  
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you  
But in your dreams, whatever they be  
Dream a little dream of me_

Michonne feels Judith's hand go limp, and as she studies her face, she finds Judith's eyes closed, her mouth hanging open, and her breaths flowing slow and steady through her lungs.

She's fallen asleep. There's still moisture on her little face from her tears, and Michonne gently wipes it away with the pad of her thumb.

 _Stars fading, but I linger on, dear  
Still craving your kiss  
I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear  
Just saying this_

She glances down at RJ, and finds that he's settled, too, his back rising and falling against her palm with a constant rhythm.

She smiles, and casts her eyes upward, towards wherever he is.

"RJ likes it, too," she lets him know.

 _Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you  
Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you  
But in your dreams, whatever they be  
Dream a little dream of me_

She gazes at her two sleeping children, and her heart fills with a warmth she hasn't felt in awhile. Again, she looks up.

"We're gonna be okay," she tells him. "I promise you, we're gonna be okay."

She takes a deep breath, allowing her whole body to relax, before closing her eyes.

 _But in your dreams, whatever they be  
Dream a little dream of me_

* * *

As soon as Siddiq says it's safe for RJ to travel by horseback, she takes him to Rick.

Spring has begun to warm the days again, freeing the survivors from a harsh winter. The sun shines in splotches on her and their baby, its light interrupted by the burgeoning leaves on the surrounding trees. The water of the creek rushes by calmly as they sit on the damp ground beneath them.

"I wanted to bring him to you sooner, but I had to wait until I could take him on a horse."

She looks down at RJ as he sits on her lap, cooing and grasping a leaf Michonne had handed him. She smiles.

"I know I talk to you about him all the time. But I wanted you to see him."

She laughs self-consciously as RJ gurgles.

"I know that doesn't make sense. If you can hear me anywhere, then you can most definitely see him anywhere, too. But here I am."

RJ squeals, and wiggles on her lap. She smiles again.

"Here _we_ are, I mean. Sorry, baby."

She's quiet for a few moments, and listens to the wind blowing through the tree branches. RJ starts to fuss, so she picks him up, and holds him in the air, facing her. She stares at him - at his angelic face, his tiny fingers, his wide, brown eyes. At his chubby cheeks, kicking feet, and dark curls that get longer by the day.

"Look what we made, Rick."

She brings RJ to her, cradles him against her body, and begins to sway back and forth. RJ hums and babbles contentedly, and she closes her eyes and leans her head against him, snuggling with the baby. With their perfect, little person.

She feels a tear run down the side of her face.

"Look what we made."

* * *

 **A/N:** There ya go!

There are a ton of amazing versions of _Dream a Little Dream of Me._ The versions by Ella Fitzgerald and Mama Cass are the ones referenced in this chapter, and I also recommend the versions by Dala and Renee Dominique.

The line, "We're gonna be okay. I promise you, we're gonna be okay," is from _This is Us_ on NBC. And I've actually used it before in one of my stories (Newton's Third Law), but I just like it a lot, okay? Don't throw things at me.

The next chapter is going to be weird and probably on the short side, since it's gonna be a sort of very vague navigation through a very long time period (6 years, anyone?). I hate to skip so much story, but we have things to get to, right? ;)

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	5. remember me, love, when i'm reborn

**Author's Note:** Hi guys! Here's chapter 5 of A Slight Return Home. It's short, and a little different stylistically than I've been writing in this story so far, but I hope you like it anyways.

I listened to "Shrike" by Hozier while I wrote this, from his new album _Wasteland, Baby!_ The title of the chapter comes from that song. The whole album is really amazing, and I encourage you to listen to the whole thing.

* * *

 **remember me, love, when i'm reborn (interlude)**

Sometimes she thinks that he isn't dead.

It's silly, she knows. It's stupid. And most importantly, it's impossible.

Because she _saw_ him. She saw him, standing before the bridge, a herd ambling towards him. He was covered in blood - in _so much blood_. She could detect the desperation - the resignation - in his eyes even with the distance between them, and she just had to get to him. She just had to get to him, and be there with him, because together, they could do it, because they were the ones who lived, because _they didn't die_ , and she just had to _get to him_.

And then…

And then.

It didn't matter that they never found his body. She _saw him_. She watched it happen. She watched angry hues of red, yellow, and orange violently blossom and ravage the sky. She felt the heat of flame on her skin. She heard the ringing in her ears for a week afterwards, an incessant hum that taunted her, hissing reminders of her new truth at her in every still moment.

 _he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead…_

He's dead. He's dead, and it's impossible.

* * *

Time passes. And she watches her children grow.

Judith's personality reveals itself more and more with each new day. She has her father's bravery, her mother's tenacity and wit, and her brother's heart. She gets taller, her blonde hair gradually turns brown, and her eyes darken to a deep hazel.

She changes. She's no longer the baby she cried over at the prison, nor the little girl that lost her father, all those years ago. She's different. A bit harder, a bit wearier. But there's still a brightness in her eyes, a hopefulness in her heart. An innocent naivety that she promises to preserve as long as it's safe to do so.

RJ turns into a little person, with his father's thick curls and brilliant smile, and her chocolate eyes and soulful laugh. Green is his favorite color. Apples are his favorite food. He loves to draw and paint with his sister, and build toy train tracks and sing songs with his mother.

His favorite thing to do is listen to stories about his father. He stares up at his mother, or sister, or the two of them together, with wide, shining eyes, caught up in every word that falls from their lips. And when they're finished, he asks for more, begging to listen until someone is needed elsewhere, or until he drifts off to sleep.

Her children are her light. The only illumination in the constant darkness of her life. And her only aim is to love them, to protect them with her entire being. With her last, dying breath.

And she clings to them, with all her might.

* * *

Sometimes she thinks that he isn't dead.

It's impossible. She knows.

But sometimes, she'll wake up in the morning, and she'll feel him. Not his spirit, or his soul. _Him._ Like their atoms are entwined together with bonds wholly impervious to any amount of distance or time. Like they're connected by some cosmic, invisible string.

And she can feel him. He's not next to her. Not there with her. But she's filled with the inexplicable knowledge that somewhere, out there, he's waking up too.

Sometimes, she'll watch Judith and RJ together, and when she smiles, it puts a pang in her heart. And not just because he's not here with his family. With _her_. But because he's _somewhere_ , out there, and he's so far away. Because he's not where he's supposed to be.

But she pushes those feelings back, files them away in some dark, rarely-touched corner of her brain. She vows never to feel them again. They're useless. Empty. Will only do more harm than good.

She was there. She saw it happen. He's _dead_.

He's dead. He's dead, and it's impossible.

* * *

Time passes. And it gets easier, just like Aaron said it would.

But it doesn't get better.

She still misses him with the same searing pain, that steals her breath in quiet moments and dizzies her. There's still a hole in her heart, gaping and pouring blood. She's still a puzzle with a missing piece, forever searching for a completion that doesn't exist for her anymore.

She learns how to deal with it - how to function while irreparably wounded - and in that way, it gets easier.

But it doesn't get better.

(She's accepted the fact that it never will.)

* * *

Sometimes she thinks that he isn't dead.

It's impossible, she knows. She _knows._

And she swears to stop thinking it, to never believe it, to beat it down and extinguish its burning so it never returns. Because it's futile. Meaningless. Will only do more harm than good.

She saw him, she saw it, he's _dead_.

 _(he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead...)_

He's dead. He's dead, and it's impossible.

But sometimes.

 _Sometimes._

Sometimes, she thinks that he isn't dead.

(Sometimes, she thinks he's somewhere, out there. She just has to find him.)

* * *

 **A/N:** There ya have it! Like I said, this chapter is short, and a little different, but it's really supposed to serve as a setup for the second part of this story. I'd love to know what you thought of it, so leave me a review if you want to!

See you (hopefully) soon!

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	6. those heavy days in june

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry for the incredibly long wait for this update. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble, but I hope the final product turned out okay.

The title of this chapter comes from "June" by Florence + The Machine, from her most recent album, _High As Hope_. Florence is my favorite musical artist, so I really recommend checking out all of her work. But when I wrote this chapter, I actually mainly listened to Sia - specifically, the piano versions of "I'm In Here" and "Elastic Heart".

 **Also: Please read the author's note at the end of this chapter. It's important, and will help you understand where this story is going from here on out.**

* * *

 **those heavy days in june**

"Momma?"

She stirs, begins to open her eyes and then closes them tightly. She expects the bright sunshine of a new summer day to greet her and nearly blind her, and she throws a forearm over her eyes in preparation.

But the brightness doesn't come when she squints open her eyes, and she moves her arm, lifts one eyelid curiously and finds the dull gray light of early, _early_ morning.

"Momma?"

She blinks, and then turns her head towards the sound of the small voice coming from the foot of her bed.

And there is RJ, on her mattress, balancing on his hands and knees, looking like a tiger ready to pounce.

She can't help but smile, but then her brow furrows.

"RJ? What are you doing up so early?"

"I'm hungry," he tells her, tentatively crawling up the bed and settling next to her. She lifts up the covers so he can burrow under them, and he cuddles into her side.

"Hungry?" she questions teasingly. "It's not breakfast time yet."

"But I'm hungry now," he protests, drawing out the w-sound. "Can we have breakfast early today?"

She grins down at her little boy. At her baby, who isn't much of a baby anymore.

"Sure, pumpkin."

A serious look suddenly crosses RJ's face. He sits up, and folds his arms in front of him.

"Momma. I am not a pumpkin."

"Hmm, I don't know. You have a nice, round head," she says, running her hand sideways over his curls, down his cheek and under his chin. "And a big, bright smile."

She takes her two index fingers and pushes up the corners of his mouth. He giggles, and it makes her giggle.

Then, he rolls away from her and off the bed.

"Come _on_ , Momma. Race you to the kitchen! I want scrambled eggs!"

"Be careful on the stairs!" she shouts, but he's already off, his footsteps pit-patting on the hardwood floor.

She gets out of bed, and grabs her robe from the hook in the corner. As she's tying it together, Judith wanders into her room clad in pink pajamas, rubbing at her eyes, her long, brown hair a mess.

"Up already?" Michonne asks.

"RJ," Judith mumbles sleepily in explanation. "What's for breakfast?"

"Scrambled eggs okay?"

Judith nods.

"I'm gonna go brush my teeth."

"Hey," Michonne says as Judith turns to leave. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

She turns back around, and smiles, walking to her mother and wrapping her arms around her waist.

"Good morning, Mom."

"Good morning, Judith," Michonne answers, returning the girl's hug. She leans and places a kiss on the top of her head.

"Love you."

"Love you, too, little bird."

Judith squeezes her once more, and then turns and leaves the room. Michonne's smile lingers as she puts on a pair of slippers.

Today is going to be a good day.

She laughs once, and then goes to make her way downstairs. As she does, she catches eye of the bed.

Of the left side, specifically. Made and ready for sleep.

Perpetually made and ready for sleep.

Her heart skips a beat, and her smile slips.

* * *

They've been seeing helicopters.

The last winter had been a long one, that started with an unusually chilly autumn and only got worse from there. December through February was plagued by below-average temperatures and frequent snow squalls and blizzards. Heat sources dwindled at a rapid pace. Rations ran dangerously low. At times, it seemed like it wouldn't end. Not soon enough, at least.

But it did end, in the nick of time. Late April brought thaw. Spring happened upon them, _finally_ , and with it brought relief. Gray gave way to green, gave way to _growth_ , and everyone crawled out of the holes they had made to survive the winter and lived in the open once again.

It was only a few weeks later that it started to happen.

At first, there were only whispers. Rumors running through the community, as individuals and smaller groups saw something here, or there. No one stated it plainly, though, for fear that they'd be thought insane. Helicopters weren't _real_ \- not anymore. Right?

 _Right_?

When Michonne sees one for the first time, it jogs her memory, to a time not long after the end of the war.

" _I think...I saw a helicopter."_

 _Rick's words don't even make her pause at first, as she rustles through her top drawer, looking for the sock that matches the one clutched in her left fist. He offers no follow-up, and she's about to brush past the comment with a simple hum before his statement sinks in. Her face scrunches in confusion, and she turns quickly to find him at the window, fingers parting the blinds so he can look out into the sky unobstructed._

" _Wait, what?" she asks. "Now?"_

" _No," he says, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. "No. It was...awhile ago, now. During the war."_

" _In the air?"_

" _Yeah," he confirms. "It flew overhead."_

" _Are you sure?"_

 _She doesn't ask because she doubts him. The question is more of a reflex - it has to be asked, because the notion of seeing a helicopter, flying in the sky, doesn't compute in her mind. And by the tone of his voice, it doesn't compute in his, either._

" _No," he says, "I'm not sure. I mean - that's impossible, to see a helicopter now. Isn't it?"_

 _She doesn't respond right away. It does seem impossible._

" _You think you imagined it?" she asks, her tone steeped in skepticism. "Hallucinated?"_

 _Her inquiries are almost blatantly sarcastic, but he shrugs, and her heart sinks. His confidence is shot, and he hasn't been trusting himself lately, even though their war has been won, and the vast majority of people have come to terms with their plans regarding Negan._

 _He's still reeling from Carl's death. They both are, but Rick especially, and more openly. He's always had the tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve._

 _And he's never lost a child before. He doesn't know what to do._

 _A chill runs down her spine._

" _I doubt you imagined it," she tells him slowly, walking across the room and over to him. She places her hand on his back and stands on the tips of her toes, so she can peer over his shoulder and in between the blinds at the sky with him. "And if you didn't imagine it…"_

 _She lets her statement, along with all its implications, hang in the air. If a group out there had the means to pilot helicopters, what else could they have? And what could happen if that group were found?_

 _What could happen if that group found them?_

 _"Rick," she breathes, as her eyes widen and her thoughts race. "Rick, this could be - big."_

 _She waits, but he doesn't answer. So she tries to prompt him._

 _"Do you remember where you saw it? Or where it seemed to be headed?"_

 _Again, he's silent. She can sense that he wants to drop the subject, but she can't shut off her mind._

 _"Was there only one of them? And you said it was during the war. You don't think it had something to do with Negan, do you? And that's why we haven't seen any since. Or -"_

 _"Michonne, I'm…"_

 _He lets out a rough breath, and then removes his fingers from the blinds and turns toward her. His blue eyes are tired, and slightly wet, as they always seem to be these days. Her heart sinks, and suddenly, helicopters are miles from the forefront of her mind._

 _"Rick."_

 _"Michonne, I'm not even sure that it was_ _ **real**_ _, let alone what it was doing or where it was going."_

 _He runs a hand through his curls, mussing them, knocking one from behind his ear so it hangs over his forehead and into his eyes._

 _"I just don't...I dunno. Maybe it wasn't real."_

 _He shrugs, and her heart aches._

 _She hates seeing him like this: sullen and unconfident, heartbroken and unsteady, like he's lost in some dark, empty space, ambling in no particular direction, stumbling over his own two feet._

 _She hates it. She detests it, with every atom of her being._

 _So instead of asking about helicopters, she pushes that stray curl from his face, tucks it back behind his ear._

 _"Your hair's getting long," she comments idly, just as a statement of fact._

 _"I've been thinking about cutting it, actually."_

 _For a moment, her heart sinks. She_ _ **loves**_ _those curls. She fell in love with them the first night they came together - fell in love with how silky they felt on her skin, with the way she could tangle her fingers in them and pull him closer to her, with little moans and groans she could make slip from his mouth when she tugged on them as he fucked her. And her obsession with them is still so potent that the prospect of losing them sends an irrational sadness coursing through her veins._

 _"Would you do it for me? Cut it, I mean?"_

 _His question pulls her from her thoughts, and she refocuses to find him staring at her with eyes so vulnerable that it almost brings her to tears._

 _It seems like such a simple request, but she's aware of its significance. She remembers Carl telling her stories of Saturdays at the Grimes' household of old, when Lori would herd her two boys into the master bathroom and trim their matching chestnut hair. It's the reason Carl always refused haircuts, no matter who was giving them - the boy had told her as much, in their early days at Alexandria, when some strange lady from down the street had offered._

 _This isn't Rick's first haircut since Lori, she knows, but it is his first haircut in awhile. It's the first time he's cut his hair since they've been together, and of course, the first time he's asked her to do it for him._

 _His eyes dart from hers as they stand in silence, her mind still processing his request while he anxiously awaits her answer. He turns his head towards the window._

" _I mean, you don't have to," he fumbles. "I might not even end up doing it. I don't - "_

" _Rick."_

 _She places her hand on his cheek, over his full, gray beard, and guides his face back to hers. He gazes at her, and she can see his whole soul._

" _I'd be honored to cut your hair for you."_

 _He stares at her for a moment, then nods. His eyes leave hers once again, as he looks at his feet, but she can see one corner of his mouth tick up into a small smile. She grabs one of his hands and laces their fingers together, and starts to pull him towards their bathroom._

" _You know, the last time I got a haircut, I cried."_

 _She continues on, grinning, because she can hear the amusement in his voice. She stops in front of the entrance to the bathroom and turns towards him._

" _Well, you feel free to cry during this one, too. Whenever you want."_

" _I just might take you up on that," he warns wryly, and they both let out soft laughs. She goes to flick on the bathroom light, but he pulls back on her arm, stopping her._

"' _Chonne?" he murmurs._

 _She turns around again, a curious look on her face._

" _What is it?"_

" _I love you," he tells her, his expression so earnest and honest that it makes the first hints of tears begin to well in her eyes. She steps towards him, melts her body against his and stands on her tiptoes so she can press their foreheads together._

" _I love you," she murmurs, then places a quick kiss on the bridge of his nose._

 _They close their eyes, stand there together and breathe._

She'd filed that moment away in her brain for a reason wholly unrelated to helicopters; it was one of their first instances of healing after they lost Carl. It was a day that made them smile more than it made them frown. And she treasured it with her whole heart.

The admittedly-strange start to the conversation seemed unimportant with the knowledge she'd had then, and she'd tucked it away in the corner of her mind. It resurfaces with a jolt, but when it does, she keeps it on the quiet side. She tells Aaron and Rosita, Ezekiel, Carol. Not anyone else.

Because it doesn't really matter who saw them first, or when they saw them. What matters is that they're seeing them _now_ , with ever-increasing frequency.

Still, they don't know what to do. How to solve their new problem. They don't really know if they even have a new problem; so far the helicopters haven't bothered them, nor have the people inside them. They've just been viewed from a distance, with awe and a healthy dose of suspicion.

In the end, they decide there are more pressing matters hanging over their heads: stabilizing The Hilltop, reuniting the communities, dealing with The Whisperers. They agree to put off helicopters, either until they have more time and freedom, or until their hand is forced.

For now, they resign themselves to looking on from afar. To staring into the sky and watching in wonder.

* * *

Her life changes with a frantic knocking on her front door one June afternoon, on a rare day that she's taken for herself. She's on the couch painting her toenails a deep shade of teal when the abrupt noise startles her, making the brush fall out of her hand and onto the carpet below.

She swears under her breath, and curses whoever is pounding incessantly on her door. Picking up the brush and twisting the bottle of nail polish closed, she gets up and rushes to the front of the house, hobbling on her heels so she doesn't blemish the fresh coat of paint on her toes.

She throws the door open mid-knock, and finds Eugene and Gabriel standing on the other side, the Father's fist still raised in the air.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. This isn't the first time this pair has shown up on her doorstep, frazzled and wide-eyed. You see, Father Gabriel and Eugene like to fiddle with radios. Their technology is still in its primitive stages, and while it's improved communication between the communities, there haven't been any other significant results as of yet. However, that hasn't stopped the two men from rushing to her house a handful of times, hectically prattling about some bit of static in terms she doesn't understand - static that has always turned out to be nothing, so far.

She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms across her chest, and waits. However, their normal, frenzied words don't come. Instead, they stare at her like she's grown a second head, mouths agape, chests still heaving from the jog to her house.

"What?" she asks, her brow furrowing.

Gabriel's mouth opens and then closes again. He blinks hard, and then looks at the ground.

"Michonne…" he chokes out.

But before the man can finish, Eugene interrupts.

"A new transmission on our radio has given us reason to believe that our long-lost leader, Rick Grimes, is in fact alive and well."

"Eugene!" Gabriel scolds, turning around. "We weren't supposed to -" He scoffs, and then faces forward once again. "Michonne, we can't be sure what we heard, or what it meant…"

But Michonne isn't listening to Gabriel. Instead, she stares at Eugene, eyes narrowed. She stands up straight, and drops her chin to her chest. Her heart beats so fast it tickles like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"What did you just say?" she asks Eugene, her voice dangerously low.

"Michonne," Gabriel tries again, "he wasn't supposed to say that. Not like that, at least. Listen, we can't be - "

"Shut the fuck up, Gabriel," she growls, never taking her eyes off of Eugene Porter. "Tell me. What did you say, just now?"

"I said," Eugene hesitates, his gaze bouncing around nervously. "I said…"

"EUGENE!" she shouts.

"I said that we have reason to believe that Rick Grimes is alive and well."

She stares at him, her breathing beginning to speed up. Her thoughts are sprinting around in her brain at record speed, and right now, she can't catch a single one.

"Of course, we can't know if he's actually well or not. I was using a common phrase to express myself, but maybe I should've - "

"Shut up," she murmurs, cutting off Eugene's rambling. Then, she turns to Father Gabriel.

"Tell me what you heard. Exactly what you heard."

"A little while ago, we picked up a conversation between two women on the radio," he begins, his hands outstretched in Michonne's direction, as if she were a lion on the hunt, and he was trying to defend himself. "At first it was only faint, but we made some adjustments and eventually got it to come in more clearly. After we listened for awhile, we realized…"

"You realized WHAT?" she nearly screams, frustrated with the pastor's constant hesitation.

"We realized that the voice of one of the women sounded like the missing Anne," Eugene finished. "Also known as Jadis."

 _Jadis_.

The name brings back memories, of a strange woman who was an enemy then a friend then an enemy then a friend again. Of a woman who eventually abandoned her weird ways and assimilated into their community.

Of a woman who disappeared at the same time Rick did. Her leaving was mostly glanced over - mainly because it _did_ happen at the same time that the bridge exploded - and Michonne had never made the connection in her head until now.

Now, it seems so obvious that she wants to give herself several swift kicks in the shin for missing it.

 _Jadis_.

"What did she say? Tell me exactly what she said," she demands of the two men.

"We couldn't hear it perfectly," Gabriel warns.

But Eugene forges ahead.

"The unknown woman asked, 'This area is where you picked up that Rick guy, isn't it?'"

"Rick!" Michonne exclaims. She looks desperately between the two men. "You're absolutely positive she said Rick?"

Eugene and Gabriel glance at each other, before nodding.

"Yes," Gabriel murmurs.

"Then Anne's voice came in," Eugene goes on, "and confirmed that yes, she had found this aforementioned 'Rick' in this area."

"Then what?" she breathes.

The two men look at each other, and pause.

"THEN WHAT DID THEY SAY?" she yells. A person passing on the street before them stops, and turns their head in the direction of the three of them. The person catches the eye of Eugene and Gabriel, and they hesitate again.

"Don't look at them!" Michonne barks, reaching out and grabbing both men before pulling them closer to her. "Look at me! What did they say next?"

"The unfamiliar woman came through again," Gabriel finally continued, "and asked, 'So this is the home he keeps going on and on about?'"

'"Keeps'?" she whispers. "'Keeps', with an 's'? As in, the present tense of keep?"

"There was a lot of static - "

"Gabriel," Michonne warns. "Tell me what you heard."

Gabriel looks away from her for a moment, and bites his lip. Then, his eyes return to hers, his gaze resolute.

"We believe we heard 'keeps'. Present tense."

And she had _known_. All along, she had known.

"Don't move," she instructs the two men.

She turns on her heel and dashes up the stairs to her room so she can grab her boots. She pulls them on with trembling fingers, while words flow through her cells like electricity, swirl in her brain, travel up the contours of her spine, and sing in her blood, with every pump of her heart.

 _he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive..._

She runs back downstairs, grabs her gun and katana from the living room and returns to the front door to find Eugene and Gabriel waiting for her, just as she had told them to.

"Follow me," she says now, as she pushes past them and starts down the stairs to her house. "The kids are over at Aaron's for the night, so we have some time. We need to get started right now. You need to tell me _everything_ you've been doing for the past few days - hell, the past few _weeks_ \- and we need to figure out what our next steps are going to be."

 _he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive..._

"And what exactly is it that _we_ are starting on, right now?" Eugene asks from behind her.

She stops in the middle of the street, and turns to watch the two men rush to catch up to her. She looks them both in the eyes - Gabriel, then Eugene - holds each of their gazes for a few moments, and finally, speaks.

 _he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive..._

"We're going to find Rick. And we're going to bring him home."

* * *

 **A/N:** There you have it. I was really nervous to write the moment in the last section, where she finds out Rick's alive, and I hope it ended up working. I also hope that this chapter doesn't seem too disjointed, since I wrote it over a long period of time, with significant breaks from writing anything at all.

Now, for the important part: I'm going to be skipping over the 'saving Rick' part of this story. The next chapter will jump to a time when Rick is home again. The reason why? Like I've said before, I'm not used to writing long, plot-driven pieces, and writing the actual events of the rescue seems a bit too action-y for me to be comfortable writing it (or to stay motivated and interested in writing this, if I'm being honest). Plus, I'm really craving some Richonne right now, and I'm anxious to get to the part where they're reunited.

But don't worry! You'll still get to witness all the important moments through intermittent flashbacks (like Rick and Michonne seeing each other again for the first time, Rick reuniting with Judith and the rest of his family/community, Rick meeting RJ for the first time, etc.). So I'm hoping you won't feel like you're missing anything vital. Because really, we're all just here for Richonne, right? ;)

As always, thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought through a review if you want.

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	7. blind faith

**Author's Note:** Hi all! Here is chapter seven of A Slight Return Home.

Strangely enough, I listened to Taylor Swift while I wrote this chapter - to a song called "False God" from her new album, _Lover._ The music, more than the lyrics, just put me in the mood I needed to be in to write this, so there ya go I guess. The title comes from that song as well.

* * *

 **blind faith**

Coming home is hard.

* * *

 _She'd expected to be happy when she saw him again._

 _The first time she sees him, he's curled up at the edge of an empty, dank room. The power is out, and the room is mostly dark, save for one overhead light that keeps flickering on and off at random._

 _That's how she catches glimpses of him - through those brief flashes of light. He's crouched down in the far right corner, barefoot, hands over his head. She can tell, even from where she's standing, that he's frail - he's so much_ _**smaller**_ _than she remembers him being. She can see a lengthy, unkempt beard growing on his face, hair longer than she'd ever seen it, sweaty and curly and more gray than brown. A thin hospital gown is the only thing covering his body, and for a moment, she's swept away to a different moment in time, despite the chaos around her. She imagines his memories - thinks of him waking up from a coma in that hospital bed, thousands of miles away, all those years ago. Alone, confused, and terrified. Wearing only a hospital gown._

 _She supposes he's completed some strange, apocalyptic full-circle, and she almost lets out a morbid laugh before she hears a loud bang come from down the hall, and she's reminded that they have to be quick._

 _She sprints in his direction, then stops about two bodies' length from him and slows. She doesn't want to scare him even more than he already is. A few steps later, her legs give out (because he's_ _ **alive**_ _he's alive he's alive, and he's right there in front of her) and she crawls to him, on her hands and knees across a dirty, tile floor._

" _Rick?"_

 _He jumps at the sound of his name, but he doesn't lift his head to look at her._

" _Rick," she says again._

 _She reaches out to pull at one of the arms covering his face, but he hisses loudly when she touches him. A glance down shows her an arm marred with yellow and purple bruises, fresh scabs and long, jagged scars._

" _Rick," she breathes._

 _She reaches out again, trying her best to avoid cuts and bruises, and he flinches. But she continues on, because they don't have much time and she has to get him out of here._

 _She's not leaving without him. She'll die here, with him, if she has to. But she refuses to leave without him._

 _She moves his arm rather easily, because he's so weak. When she does - when she can finally see his face - she almost breathes a sigh of relief. There are cuts and bruises, but it's nowhere near as bad as his arms. His eyes are shut tightly, his chest heaving with rapid, panicked breaths._

" _Look at me," she tells him._

 _He doesn't move or answer, so she moves her hand to his shoulder, and shakes him gently. He lets out a low growl that sounds like it came from a desperate, caged animal. He tries to back up further, but he's already pressed against the wall, and she doesn't let go._

" _I'm not gonna hurt you," she assures him, making her voice as comforting as it can be, given their situation. "I'm not gonna hurt you."_

 _She hears another loud bang. Rosita calls out from behind her._

" _Michonne."_

 _She turns her head briefly to see the rest of her group standing in the doorway, guns drawn, nervous looks on their faces as their eyes move rapidly, constantly scanning the area and keeping tabs on their surroundings._

 _She must be quick._

" _Rick," she says again, her voice cracking. She's felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes since she opened the door to the room, and finally, the first one falls._

 _Her mind floods with all the time she's said his name. The way her voice was full of hostility for the first few weeks, and then became softer and softer as time passed until it was almost friendly. The way saying it made her smile when she found him and Carl after the prison. How she tried to comfort him every time she uttered it when they first arrived at Alexandria. The way it fell from her lips on their first night together, in pleasured keens and breathless whimpers._

 _The way she screamed it, the last time she saw him. Screamed it as she watched the bridge burn in front of her, over and over again, until her vocal cords hurt. And how she whispered it on dark nights, after he was gone, curled up in their empty bed and missing him so much that she thought she would die._

 _She's never said it the way she does now. She's never been this desperate._

" _Baby, look at me," she begs, and she grabs his chin to try and turn his head towards her. "Please, baby."_

 _She's just about to open her mouth again when she sees the skin around the corners of his eyes loosen, as he relaxes his eyelids. He stops breathing for a moment, and then inhales and exhales three times, slowly and deliberately. She can tell he's trying to calm himself down, and she doesn't dare move so that she doesn't disturb the process._

 _He takes one more deep breath, and his eyes blink open. Then, he turns his head._

 _She'd expected to be happy when she first saw him again._

 _But when his eyes meet hers, finally, for the first time in seven years, all she feels is pain. Pain worse than she's ever felt before. Pain sharper and more searing than when the bridge exploded in front of her, and she lost him._

 _His blue eyes are completely dull as they dart around her face like he doesn't recognize her. To be fair, she wouldn't recognize him either, except for the fact that he's_ _ **Rick**_ _and she knows him. Her heart and soul and spirit know him, irrevocably, and she'd recognize him anywhere, no matter the circumstance._

 _She waits for that recognition to kick in for him too, because she's_ _ **Michonne**_ _. Because she's his. She waits, like she waited for Judith to come to her after she had to slaughter the children that were with Jocelyn. She waits for him to fall into her, to cry, to hold her._

" _MICHONNE!" Rosita yells again, more urgently this time._

 _The recognition doesn't come, though, and she's never been more afraid in her entire life._

" _We have to go," she tells him, standing and pulling him up with her. She shudders at how easy it is to take on his weight, and she wonders what they'll find when they finally take that hospital gown off of him. She braces herself, preparing to put up with his struggling, but he doesn't fight back. He stumbles a bit, but he goes with her easily. She tries to take it as a good sign._

" _Ready?" Rosita asks, once she gets the two of them back to the group._

" _Ready," Michonne reports, and she tries to steel herself, to turn off her emotions so she can stay on mission and get Rick home._

 _But as she leaves the room and walks out into the warzone around them, sandwiched at the center of her allies as she half-carries Rick along, tears continue to flow from her eyes and fall off her chin and jaw in drops._

* * *

Coming home is hard.

And sometimes, she feels like she's slipping into a dark pit that she can't see the bottom of.

* * *

 _He passes out on the way back to Alexandria, and they rush him to the infirmary as soon as they get through the gates._

 _Siddiq checks his vitals and clears him of any urgent health problems. His heart rate is low, but normal. Same with his blood pressure and temperature. She doesn't understand, then, why he's not waking up, but Siddiq assures her that this can happen. His body, not strong to begin with, just went through an ordeal, and needs time to recuperate._

 _So she stays with him, keeps vigil at the side of his bed, and will do so until he wakes up. She remembers the way he did the same with Carl when the boy lost his eye, and with her when she was beaten by one of Jadis' people. It is her turn, and she is not leaving his side._

 _Siddiq stays around for awhile, checking his body, making secondary diagnoses. Things like repeated trauma and abuse come out of his mouth. Dehydration. Malnutrition. When Siddiq finally removes the hospital gown - when she sees his bloated stomach, his prominent ribs - she is tempted to go back to where she found him and kill the people who had him imprisoned for a second time._

 _Siddiq leaves when he decides Rick is stable enough to be without a doctor. He's filthy, so Siddiq leaves her the items she needs to give him a sponge bath._

 _As she runs the soft sponge over his body, she takes inventory. She counts each of his ribs. She trails the tips of her fingers against the bumps of his spine. There are too many scars and bruises for her to categorize. But she swears that she will watch each bruise yellow and fade until there are none left. She promises that she will learn every new scar, memorize them and learn their stories and rub her fingers along them until she wipes away all of his pain._

 _She cuts his hair after she's done, shaves off that grizzly beard. He begins to look more like himself. His hair is grayer. He has more wrinkles. He's beaten and broken, but he's come out on the other side. And she supposes that makes him more_ _ **him**_ _than he's ever been before._

 _He's Rick Grimes. He's hers, and she's never letting anyone take him away from her again._

 _She doesn't leave the infirmary, except to step outside and see Judith and RJ. She doesn't want them to see their father yet. Not in the state he's in. She stays awake as much as she can, because she wants to be there when he wakes up. Plus, she just wants to look at him. She spent seven years not seeing him, and now that she can, she never wants to close her eyes again. Not even to blink._

 _He sleeps for three days. On the third, she sits next to him, holding his hand. Siddiq has just left after giving her lunch, and now she's alone again. She likes it better that way, she thinks. She's missed being alone with Rick._

 _She's looking down at their entwined hands, and playing with his fingers, when he wakes._

 _It happens all of a sudden. Without warning, he begins to gasp for air, and she jumps out of her seat, startled by the abrupt noise. He keeps heaving, and she's about to run for Siddiq, when she notices his eyes are open. She hesitates. She suspects he's having trouble due to panic rather than something medical, and she knows that adding another person into the situation will only increase his anxiety. So instead, she turns to him, never letting go of his hand._

" _Hey," she says gently. "Hey, you're okay, you're okay. Everything's fine."_

 _He looks up at her, eyes wide and frightened._

" _Hey, hey," she coos again, bending over him slightly._

" _Where am I?" he asks frantically. His voice is rough and gravelly, like he hasn't used it in awhile and it's collected a layer of rust._

" _You're in the infirmary. In Alexandria."_

 _She almost asks him if he remembers where that is, but she doesn't want to be disappointed by his answer. He doesn't say anything, but he does stop hyperventilating. Since he seems calmer, she takes her seat again, pulling it a little closer to his bed._

 _He doesn't move for a few minutes, just lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. Then, he turns his head in her direction, and notices their hands are clasped together. He quickly pulls away from her, and folds his hands over his stomach._

 _He doesn't like to be touched, that much is clear. The words Siddiq used ring in her head - repeated trauma, abuse - and her heart shatters._

" _I, uh, gave you a bath," she tells him, just to fill the empty air with sound. But she realizes that if he doesn't remember her, that might make him feel uncomfortable. "I hope that's okay. You were pretty dirty."_

 _He doesn't answer. One of his hands comes up and runs over his jaw, free from that beard._

" _Yeah, I also shaved off that beard. Hope you weren't too fond of it," she tries to joke, but he doesn't laugh. "I cut your hair a little bit, too."_

" _How long was I asleep?" he asks._

" _Three days."_

 _He nods, but doesn't react any other way. A silence falls over them._

 _She wants to ask him if he remembers who she is. She is scared of what he will tell her, but she must know. She needs to determine where she has to start with him._

 _So, she rises again, sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him. He still scoots over. She closes her eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath, and forges ahead._

" _Do you remem-"_

" _Michonne," he interrupts._

 _Her heart leaps. It's the first time she's heard him say her name since before he left for camp, after their family fun day. Her vision blurs with tears. She'd forgotten how much she loves the sound of her name on his lips._

" _Yeah?" she asks, a single tear falling from the corner of her left eye._

 _He nods again._

" _Michonne," he repeats, and he sounds like a man who just found water after days of wandering in the desert._

 _She lets out a sob that surprises even her, and covers her mouth with her hand. He looks at her for a moment, and then reaches out with trembling fingers to grab that hand. He pulls it from her face, brings it down to his chest, and holds her hand in both of his._

 _She can feel the steady thump of his heart under her palm._

 _(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)_

" _Michonne," he breathes._

 _And the corners of his mouth tick up._

* * *

Coming home is hard.

And sometimes, she feels like she will buckle under the weight of it all.

She didn't expect it to be this hard.

* * *

 _He lets her hand go soon after he takes it, retreating into himself. She sits back in her seat, waits for him to start asking questions about the past seven years, but those questions don't come. Instead, he lays back again and stares at the ceiling._

 _The silence that falls over them is heavy, and long, and she's on the verge of falling asleep sitting up when he speaks._

" _How is she?"_

 _She knows who his question is about without having to ask. He wants to know about his little girl._

 _Judith._

" _She's...perfect," she tells him, a brilliant smile appearing on her face. "Even more perfect than we could've imagined."_

" _She's ten by now, right?"_

" _Going on eleven."_

" _Holy shit," he mutters under his breath, and Michonne laughs softly._

" _She's amazing, Rick. She's smart. Capable. Knows how to survive. Calls me out on my bullshit. God, I can't wait for you to see her. She carries your gun around with her, you know."_

" _My Colt?" he asks, surprise coloring his tone. "Isn't that thing nearly as big as her?"_

 _They both laugh, but he stops suddenly._

" _Wait. How'd she get my Colt? I had it on me when the bridge went up."_

 _She looks down, and bites her lip. She doesn't know why she's nervous to tell him this, but she is._

" _I found it when I went to talk to you," she murmurs._

 _He provides no response, so after a few moments, she glances up. He's looking in her direction, instead of up at the ceiling, and has a confused look on his face._

" _You...went to talk to me?"_

" _I did," she begins, looking at the floor again. "We never found your body - now we know why, of course - but back then, we just knew that we couldn't find you. I didn't have anything to bury, or anywhere to mourn. We put a little something next to Carl's grave, but it wasn't the same, because I knew you weren't actually there. So when I wanted to feel especially close to you, or talk to you, I would go to the bridge - the place I last saw you - and sit on the bank of the creek. And just...talk to you."_

 _She shifts in her seat a little, and shrugs._

" _I know it sounds kind of stupid -"_

" _It's not stupid," he interrupts, and when she looks at him, he has tears in his eyes. "It's not."_

 _She nods, and wipes at the wetness that starts to gather in her own eyes._

" _What did you talk to me about?" he wonders._

" _Lots of things," she answers. "But I mostly went when…"_

" _When what?"_

 _She hesitates, and looks down again. She's not sure how much she should pile on him all at once, but she needs to tell him. Not telling him is a weight in her heart that pulls her down._

 _She needs to tell him, so she goes on._

" _When I was pregnant," she says quietly._

 _She hears the springs of his bed creak as he sits up, but she doesn't look at him yet. She's preparing herself for what she's going to say next, gathering her emotions. Trying to figure out how to tell him that he has a_ _ **son**_ _._

" _Wh-what?" she hears him stutter out, his voice cracking slightly._

" _Rick," she whispers, finally lifting her head so she can see him. He's staring at her with a bewildered look on his face, like he doesn't understand what she's trying to tell him. His eyes still shine from the liquid gathered in them._

" _I found out a few weeks after the bridge," she explains, but he still looks baffled by her words. She gets up and sits on the edge of his bed. She longs to touch him, to cup his face between her hands and press her lips to the worry lines scrunching the skin of his forehead, but she knows he will shrink away. She's beginning to realize aversion to any type of touch is a kind of reflex he's developed._

 _Repeated trauma, she remembers. Abuse._

 _So she keeps her hands to herself, and tells him plainly._

" _We did it, Rick. We had a baby. A little baby boy."_

 _He sobs._

 _He sobs over and over again. At first, she thinks - or hopes, maybe - his tears are ones of joy. But as they continue on, violent and heavy, she worries that they come from some other emotion._

" _Rick?" she questions, a frown appearing on her face._

" _What am I gonna do?" he asks her between his cries, his voice broken._

" _What do you mean?"_

" _What am I gonna do?" he asks again, looking up at her desperately with puffy and red-rimmed eyes. "I'm not the same, Michonne. I'm not who I was. Things happened - so much happened - and I'm probably never gonna be the same. How am I gonna be a dad again? The kind of dad they deserve, at least. It's gonna be hard enough with Judith, but at least she had me for a little while. But now, with this one - I'm not the same. I'm just this...hollow shell of who I used to be, and I don't -"_

 _He pauses as he sobs again._

" _How am I gonna do this?"_

" _You're not empty. You're not broken, Rick," she tells him, her own tears falling now. She places one hand on his cheek, and even though he turns to pull away, she doesn't let him. She follows his face with her hand, and gently rubs away the wetness at the corner of his eye. "Not all of you. Your heart, and your soul - they're still there. And the other parts - the parts that are broken - we'll put them back together."_

" _How?" he inquires, eyes wide and nearly hopeless._

" _I'll help you. I'll help you. That's what we do, Rick. We help each other, through everything, and together we can do anything. It's you and me. It's always been you and me."_

 _He continues to cry, but leans into her hand, finally._

" _It'll be hard," he tells her._

" _I know."_

" _It's gonna be so hard."_

" _I know, baby," she assures him. "But we've done hard things - the_ _ **hardest**_ _kinds of things - before. And we'll do this, too."_

 _He stares at her, and she can see the skepticism in his expression. But he nods, and the light stubble on his face scratches against her palm._

 _It doesn't matter if he doesn't believe her now. She'll get him there. She'll do whatever it takes to get him there._

 _As she continues to wipe away his tears, she silently pledges, to him and to herself, that she will do anything._

* * *

Coming home is _hard._

She didn't think it would be this hard - she wishes it wasn't - but it doesn't matter.

She once whispered, after he was gone, that they were going to be okay. In the dark, surrounded by her children, she _promised_ him that they would be okay.

She intends to keep that promise. Judith and RJ will be okay.

 _They'll_ be okay. Him and her. Rick and Michonne. She knows they will be, deep in her bones.

Coming home is hard. Its difficulties are hefty, and strong.

But they are stronger.

* * *

A/N: I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but I hope you all liked it. Sorry for all the angst :/

Leave a review if you are so inclined. Thanks for everything!

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	8. (my love's so) heavy in your arms

**Author's Note:** Hello there! Sorry it took me so long to get this update out - I've had writer's block hardcore for _months_. But I'm back, and hopefully I can get the next chapter out much more quickly.

I mainly listened to "Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence + the Machine while I wrote this, and that's where the title comes from. I also listened to "Older Chests" by Damien Rice while writing the last section a little.

I hope you enjoy chapter eight!

* * *

 **(my love's so) heavy in your arms**

She brings him home one week later, once Siddiq is convinced he doesn't have any pressing medical needs, and after he's gained some weight. She can tell Rick is restless and eager to leave, even though he has his doubts to what his life will be like from now on.

She tries to reassure him, to tell him they'll get through this like they get through everything, but she can sense his skepticism. And she can't deny the tingling of anxiety that stirs in her stomach when he's sleeping and she's watching him. When she's alone with her thoughts, when her mind drifts and she wonders what they did to him, where he is now. She knows that he's _here_ , in front of her, but she wonders where his soul, his spirit, his heart - where _her Rick_ \- is. How deep he had to bury them in order to survive.

But she shoves those concerns down deep the moment his eyes flutter open, and puts all her energy into him. Into bringing him back to her. Into bringing him home.

Today, she takes another step. They do, together, both literally and metaphorically as they walk up the path to what used to be their house. She supposes it still is _their_ house; his presence is permanently burned into every corner of the building, leaving an invisible trail of ashes and cinders in its wake. She did nothing to erase it while he was gone. Instead, she'd preserved it, like a precious piece of art in a museum.

She hears his steady shuffling behind her as they walk up the steps to the front door. She reaches out for the doorknob, but he clears his throat before she can turn it, and she pauses, looking back at him. His head is down, and he's twisting the toe of his boot into the cement.

"The ki-" he stops, and clears his throat once more. Then, he continues, his voice hesitant.

"The kids?"

"They're at Aaron's," she tells him. "I thought that would be best until we get you settled in."

He nods, and she doesn't miss the way his shoulders relax just so slightly after hearing this new information. Her heart breaks, for him and for her family.

She's about to turn back around, when suddenly a memory comes back to her. Like a movie, it plays in her head: a heavily-bearded Rick, nervous and grumpy and out-of-place, staring at the gates of an unknown community, hesitant to enter and start this new chapter of their lives.

She remembers sitting next to him in that car, looking over at him, picking up on the skepticism and uncertainty rolling off of him in waves. She'd wanted to comfort him. To let him know that whatever happened - good or bad - they were in it together.

So she'd covered her hand with his - a rare physical expression of affection between them, at the time - and asked him a simple question.

 _You ready?_

She reaches out now, does the same thing a little differently this time. She takes his hand and wraps it in hers. He tries to pull away at first, but she doesn't let him, and after a moment she feels his fingers relax between hers.

He lifts his chin and looks up at her, and she smiles slightly.

"You ready?" she asks.

He stares at her blankly for a second before she sees the corner of his mouth tick up, and he shakes his head as something almost like a laugh leaves his mouth. He remembers, too, and it makes the smile on her face grow.

He nods, and quietly says, "Yeah."

She grins again. It's the same answer he gave all those years ago.

She turns back around, but doesn't let go of his hand. Instead, she uses her grip on him to pull him a few steps closer to her. Then she reaches for the doorknob, and welcomes him home.

* * *

She watches him as he makes his way around the house.

She keeps herself a handful of steps behind him, careful not to interfere with his reacquaintance to what will be his home, once again. What will be _their_ home again, _finally._

He doesn't say much as he walks and wanders. A mumble, here and there, like he's talking to himself. Nothing she can make out. He reaches out every so often, runs his hand over a wall, or brushes his fingertips along a countertop. As if to ground himself in something physical.

He hesitates at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, then starts up them slowly. She follows. The creak of the steps under their feet seems to boom in the otherwise silent house.

When they reach the top floor, he motions to Judith's room.

"Still Judy?"

"Yeah," she confirms, taking initiative and moving in front of him. "You want to see it?"

He nods, and she pushes the door open. He steps around her and into the center of the bedroom, placing his hands on his hips as he glances around.

"It's a lot less...pink than I remember it being."

She can't help the smile that breaks out on her face.

"Yeah, she kind of phased out of that," she tells him.

"Not a little girl anymore, huh?" he asks as he turns to her. She knows he's trying to joke, but she doesn't miss the apprehension in his eyes.

"Not _as_ little," she clarifies, "but still little enough. Littler than she likes to think she is."

"How?" he asks immediately, eagerly.

Michonne wracks her brain, and smiles again when she decides on an answer.

"She _loves_ horses. Lowkey freaks out whenever she's around one. She's always asking to feed them or take care of them, which I'm pretty sure is just an excuse for her to pet them. She's absolutely enamored with them. Just like every little girl ever, right?"

"Right," he answers quietly, and she can see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

He lingers for a few moments before turning towards the doorway. She starts towards the next room after they exit, but he doesn't move from his spot. When she turns to check on him, he's staring past her, mesmerized by something across the hall. She follows his gaze, and her heart thumps heavier in her chest when she sees what has his attention.

Carl's old room.

"It's RJ's room now," she tells him, reaching out to gently touch his arm.

(He stiffens, but she barely notices anymore - she expects it, rather. But she's persistent, keeps touching him, swearing that she'll teach him the feel of loving touches again.)

After Carl had died, they hadn't touched anything in his bedroom. They couldn't bear to. Instead, they left everything as it was, almost as a shrine to their lost son. The world might've taken him from them, but they would protect the memory of him in any way they could. So they kept it, preserved it, in honor of Carl and their love for him.

They had only packed it up when they decided to switch houses, and when they were arranging their new home, they'd decided to place all of his things in the room across the hall from Judith's - just where Carl's room was in their first house. They'd even taken to calling it Carl's room again, making sure that all of them - especially Judith - knew that the boy was still an integral part of their family, even though he wasn't here anymore.

She hesitated, when she was pregnant and deciding on where to put RJ's crib, to finally move the boxes and bins full of Carl's things. But it brought her a kind of comfort, filling the room with new life, and she knew deep in her heart that Carl would approve completely.

So she'd moved it. And it had healed her bit by bit, watching her youngest son grow up where his older brother had been represented.

She hopes that it will bring Rick the same sense of healing and comfort.

But as she goes to lead him there, he doesn't follow. When she looks back at him, she can't read the expression on his face.

"Don't you want to see it?" she asks, her brow furrowing.

"Maybe - " Rick starts, taking a step back and dropping his gaze to the floor. He brings one of his hands up to his face and scratches across his forehead with his thumb. "Maybe I should meet him first."

His answer surprises her, wholly and genuinely, more than anything else he has said since she found him again. If there was one thing sure in her mind, it was that Rick would be more than impatient to see his children again. To meet his _son_. To know everything he could about RJ - every detail, no matter how minute or mundane.

But after his tears when she first told Rick of RJ's existence, and his trepidation now, dread begins to gather in the pit of her stomach. She buries it the best she can, and moves on.

Their room is the only one left. She starts towards it, and is relieved when she hears the groan of the floorboards behind her as he follows. She enters and goes to stand at the foot of the bed, before turning around and looking at him.

He still stands in the doorway, shifting back and forth on his feet but otherwise staying in place. She almost says something, almost reaches out her arm to beckon him inside, but she stops herself. They must do this at his pace.

So she waits for him. She waits for him, and she reminds herself that she will always wait for him, no matter the situation, and no matter how much it confuses her.

After a moment, Rick closes his eyes and takes three deep breaths. Then, he steps over the threshold.

They don't speak, just as they didn't when he first entered the house. She simply observes as he walks around the room, inspecting windows and walls and nightstands.

It's when he opens the door to the closet that she hears his voice for the first time since he came into the bedroom.

"All my stuff is still here," he mumbles.

She guesses that he's only talking to himself again, so she doesn't respond. But then he turns to her, his head tilted to the side as he peers at her curiously.

"All my stuff is still here," he repeats, and she can tell he's surprised by the fact.

"It is," she answers, and she reaches over idly to the dresser, pulling open the second drawer from the top and reaching in to run her fingers over his socks.

"Why is it still here?" he asks, so entirely surprised that she almost cries.

"It's _yours_ ," she tells him plainly, because the answers she's about to give are obvious, at least in her eyes. "I didn't want it to belong to anyone else. And I missed you. I didn't want to lose you. Especially in here."

It's the same reason they left Carl's room untouched for such a long time, she wants to tell him. But she doesn't want to bring up the odd moment in the hall again, so instead she takes a step towards him, and brings her hand up to touch him, placing her fingers on the front of his shirt and playing with the buttons there.

"I just...I missed you."

She can feel the telltale pressure of tears behind her eyes, and she tries to steady herself, tries to swallow them down.

"I missed you so much," she says, her voice breaking.

And despite her efforts, a tear falls from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. She goes to pull away from him - she doesn't want to confound his feelings by burdening him with her own - but before she can, he grabs onto the hand resting on the front of his shirt.

A shock runs through her. It's one of only a handful of times he's initiated touch with her since she's got him back. She turns to him once more, her eyes wide and shining, still full of unshed tears. He brings his hand up to cup her cheek, and his thumb rubs at the moisture staining her skin.

"I missed you," he murmurs, and he takes a step closer to her as he stares down at her like she's the only thing in the universe that exists in this moment.

She wants to kiss him.

She wants to lean up and kiss him, to lose herself in the movements of his lips and tongue, to lace her fingers through his curly hair, to feel every plane of his body pressed against hers for the first time in almost seven years. She's afraid, though - afraid that she'll startle him, that he'll pull away, that he'll not want her as much as she wants him.

But then, she sees his blue eyes dart towards her lips for the tiniest second, and she lets it decide her.

She closes her eyes and nearly throws herself at him in her eagerness, but her lips don't get the chance to even brush against his before he steps back. Her eyes pop open with a start, but she can't halt her momentum in time, and stumbles into him, knocking him back against the wall beside the closet.

She jumps back as soon as she can gather herself. They stare at each other, Rick's back still against the wall, his hands at his sides and palms turned up in a helpless gesture.

She brings her hand up to cover her mouth, and she can feel her skin heat up and eyes begin to sting with more tears. She doesn't think she's ever been more mortified.

She doesn't think she's ever been this scared.

"Michonne," Rick breathes.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, and then rushes into the bathroom and locks the door behind her.

She can't hold back her tears once she's alone, and they run down her face in torrents as she leans against the sink. She turns on the water quickly to try and drown out the sound of her sobs. Then, she lifts her head, and looks into the mirror.

She lets out a short, barking laugh through her cries as she stares at her reflection. She looks decidedly miserable - eyes red and puffy with bags underneath them, hair mussed, skin glistening with tears, clothes disheveled. She laughs once more, then sobs again, and slowly lowers herself onto the floor. Once seated, she pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her forehead on them.

A knock at the door makes her jump. She looks towards it, but makes no move to answer.

"Michonne?"

His voice is muffled by the door and by the sound of the water still rushing from the spout in the sink, but she hears it still.

"'Chonne, I'm sorry."

His words only make more of her tears fall, and she turns back into herself, resting her head on her knees again.

"I'm sorry," she hears. He sounds defeated.

And she's so scared.

* * *

Coming home is hard.

It's emotional and physical labor, and it takes its toll on her. She doesn't eat enough, she goes to bed exhausted and wakes up even more tired. She cries most days, in hidden corners where no one will see or notice her.

After the incident in their bedroom, he retreats inside himself. He stops telling her anything about his time away from her; he stops talking to her at all, save for necessary sentences and tiny asides here and there. He sleeps on the couch, rather than in their bed. He stops touching her at all. He stops being him to the point that it feels like he's gone again, even though he's right there beside her.

It saddens her endlessly. It frustrates her. And she feels like it's all her fault, because _she_ was the idiot who couldn't control herself or her emotions, who had to try to kiss him and then proceeded to have a breakdown in front of him, to the point that he had to threaten to go get Judith to coax her out of hiding.

But above all, it scares her. It scares her into thinking that she'll never be able to find him - to bring him out of all the hurt and pain that's been heaped upon him. She's afraid he's not _him_ anymore, that the Rick she loves died years ago at the community where he was held hostage, in some dark, dank room like the one in which she found him.

She's afraid, and she's never felt more alone. Before she knows it, she's retreated inside herself as well. She stops trying to pull him out. She quits asking prying questions to try and get him to speak, she doesn't reach for him anymore. She lets him be, and the two of them dance around each other like complete strangers forced to live in the same house.

They try to act normally around the kids. _He_ tries, and she gives him credit for that, because she can see how hard it is for him. Especially when RJ shirks away from Rick the first time the two meet, looking up at his mother with nervous eyes as he's confronted with the strange man in front of him. Even after she and Judith explain that this is his dad - the brave man they told him about in all of their stories - RJ is still suspicious, and clings to Michonne's leg when Rick reaches out. Judith does better, hugging him without hesitation and welcoming him back into their little family unit, but Michonne can see the apprehension in her eyes when she takes in his frailness, his bruises and scars, his skittishness.

They try to act normally, but neither Rick nor Michonne can succeed entirely. RJ is young enough that he's mostly oblivious to anything other than his uneasiness around this new person, but it has no chance of getting past Judith. Her daughter asks her as much one afternoon when they're out practicing with their katanas, questions why her mother and father are acting so " _weird_ " around each other.

"He's home now. Shouldn't you guys be happy?" she asks innocently.

Michonne smiles sadly at the girl, a deep, shaky breath leaving her lungs as she forces herself not to cry.

"Sometimes, things aren't quite that simple."

She wishes they were. _God_ , she wishes they were.

But they're not. They're not simple, and they're not easy.

It's hard. Coming home is _hard._

It isn't what everyone makes it out to be. All happy and smiley. Frantic kisses that taste like happy tears, embraces that still have the shape of the other's body memorized. Parties and parades. Sweetness and sex and safety. Reunions and romance. _Joy._ So much joy.

Coming home is hard _._

It's not knowing what to say to the person she used to tell everything to. It's hearing him lock himself in the downstairs bathroom every night after the kids go to bed like clockwork and cry for hours on end, and not making any move to comfort him because she doesn't know if that would make it worse or if he even wants her to. It's looking into his eyes - eyes she used to know _so well_ \- and finding them dull and bloodshot and empty. It's looking at the man who was the other half of her soul and wondering if she knows him anymore. It's the fear that she'll never know him again.

Coming home is hard. And time passes, with nothing.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for all the angst :/ I hope you liked it anyways.

Like I said, I hope to be out with the next update much sooner than I was with this one.

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	9. the mystery of love

**Author's Note:** It's been ages since I've updated this. I'm so sorry. The motivation just wasn't there for the longest time, but good news - it seems to be back! Plus, I just finished my classes for the semester, and I'm not working right now because of the pandemic, so I should have lots of time to write!

I listened to "Mystery of Love" by Sufjan Stevens while I wrote this, and it's obviously where the title comes from. I also listened to "Wasteland, Baby!" from Hozier's album of the same name.

Read the Author's Note at the end after you're done with this chapter. There's some important stuff in there!

Here's chapter nine of A Slight Return Home!

* * *

 **the mystery of love**

It all changes one day, suddenly.

Spring is at its most robust in Virginia, and the day outside is nothing short of beautiful. The afternoon sun shines brilliantly upon them, the trees are in full bloom, and she can hear birds singing as they fly about.

She's in a good mood, for the first time in what seems like forever. Things have been quiet for a few months now - no new threats, no dangerous communities to fight. And she has the day "off", as they tend to call it; she's not on watch, isn't going on any runs, doesn't have any duties around Alexandria to tend to.

So she's home, and it's so warm outside that she pulled shorts and a t-shirt out of her dresser this morning. The kids just finished up lunch, and quickly scurried outside to continue playing. She can hear their voices along with the chirping of the birds, and it puts her in an even better mood. She smiles as she wipes down the counter where she made sandwiches. Her bare foot taps against the cool hardwood floor of the kitchen as she sings an old Billie Holiday song her mother used to play for her under her breath.

"Michonne?"

She jumps at the sound of her name, drops the rag she's wiping with on the floor and turns towards the noise frantically, one hand gripping the edge of the counter with all her might while the other goes to her back to grab the katana that isn't there.

But when she does turn, she finds it's Rick.

"Shit, Rick!" she breathes, bending over and placing her hands on her knees as her muscles relax. She takes a moment before she stands up again, trying to steel herself for whatever kind of conversation will come next. She tries to disguise her hesitation by reaching down and picking up the rag from the floor, and as she straightens herself, she tosses the wet thing on the counter.

Then, she looks at him.

Things with Rick have still been...difficult. More than difficult. She feels like they're swimming together in a river full of molasses, and not even in the same direction, at times. Any progress is slow and heavy on their limbs. They're sad and sticky and stuck, and making little progress. Maybe not making any progress. And there's always that underlying fear in the pit of her stomach that they'll never make any progress at all.

But she tries not to think that way, keeps telling herself that this will get better if she only gives it time. That she'll find a way to bring him back. Even if it takes twenty years, she'll find a way to bring him back.

He's here in front of her, at least. That's more than she can say on most days. And she's keenly aware that this is the first time she's heard him say her name in over two weeks.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, taking a step back and turning his head to look over his shoulder.

"It's fine," she says quickly, remembering all at once how careful she has to be. He's a skittish, abused animal, constantly hovering along the edges of her world, and if she makes one or two wrong moves, he might run from her.

"It's fine," she tells him again, but she realizes that he's still looking away from her.

"Rick," she calls, but he doesn't move.

" _Rick_."

She says it more forcefully this time, and he turns back around.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," she assures him again, and he nods slowly, like he's hearing her words for the first time.

Silence falls over them. She waits for him to talk, but he doesn't. Instead, he stares at her, eyes slightly squinted. He used to look at her like that all the time. Before they were together, she never quite knew what it meant, and it made her stomach churn in a way she didn't understand. Afterwards, she knew _exactly_ what it meant, and it still made her stomach churn, but in the best possible way. Because when he looked at her like that, it meant he was thinking of him and her and a bed - or a wall, a couch, a table. Anywhere private. Where they wouldn't be seen, and hopefully not heard.

It's different this time, slightly softer and less penetrating. It's like he's trying to decide something. She wants to stay quiet, to give him the time he needs, but after a minute she starts to fidget, and she can't help but say _something_.

"What's up?"

He bites his bottom lip, and glances away momentarily before his eyes return to her. His hands fall to his hips, and she almost smiles, because he _always_ used to stand like that. It's a remnant of the past, of a better time. And it's nice to know that at least _something_ about him hasn't changed.

"Can we talk?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. She hadn't been expecting that to be his answer, and resists the urge to jump for joy because maybe this is the start of it, maybe they'll finally get somewhere, instead of just fumbling around in the dark. Maybe they'll turn to face each other in that brown river.

"Yeah," she answers, trying to temper the excitement in her voice. She could still scare him away. "Yeah, of course."

He nods once, and then turns around and walks away. Confusion floods her before she realizes he's headed for the dining room. She looks out the window briefly, to take one more look at her kiddos, and then follows after him.

She finds him standing by the table, and he motions for her to take a seat before he does. Always the gentleman. She half-smiles at him, and then sits at the head of the table.

He walks to the complete opposite side of the table, and takes his seat.

 _Or maybe he just wanted to make sure he didn't have to sit too close to you_ , chimes a voice inside her head, but she pushes that thought away. Even if that is true, this is going to be a good thing. They're going to make progress.

She watches him get settled and then waits for him to say something. But again, he hesitates. She waits awhile, and then goes to speak. Prompting worked in the kitchen, after all.

"So what do you want - "

"Is there someone else?"

She doesn't react right away, blinking hard twice. She decides she must've heard him wrong.

"What?" she questions, and the word comes out whispered and half-strangled, but he hears it still, and asks her again.

"Is there someone else? Was there? Is there? I don't know. Does it matter?"

She gapes at him, mouth hanging open. He shifts nervously in his seat.

"It's just, you've been distant since we came home from the infirmary. I know I was gone for...a long time. I mean, I'd understand. Seven years is _seven years_. It's a long time."

She can't process what's happening, even though her thoughts are racing a mile a minute. It's as if all the gears in her brain stopped working and started up again in strange patterns.

"It's okay. If there is. It's okay. We'd have to think of something with the kids, but other than that, it would probably be pretty easy. I'm sure there are empty houses. Or if not, I could always move in with Daryl, or - "

"I still have all of your clothes?"

She doesn't mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but it does. And she knows it's kind of stupid, but she can't think of something else to say.

"You do," he concedes. "You do. But...I don't know. Things have been...not good. And I know it's my fault, but like I said, you've been distant, too. And I just want you to be happy."

"I'm trying to give you space. To give you time," she murmurs, dazed. "You need time."

"I know. But I just want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. All I'll ever want. For you to be happy."

He shrugs.

"Seven years is a long time. And I just want you to be happy."

"Seven years is a long time," she breathes, repeating his words mechanically.

"And I just want to know. I _need_ to know," he amends. "Is there someone else?"

"Is there someone else?" she echos again.

He stops talking, staring at her cautiously. He might be a scared animal, but she's a bomb waiting to explode, ready to go off with the slightest touch. But she's still floundering at the moment, flopping around like a fish on a hook, gasping for breath that won't come.

She looks down at her hands. They're trembling, she realizes. Her heart is beating in double time.

"Michonne," he sighs. The sorrow in his voice is palpable.

And it decides her.

Fuck it. Fuck the waiting, the hesitation, all the caginess. Fuck that constant feeling of teetering on the very edge of a cliff, desperately wondering if someone is going to grab your hand and pull you away, or shove you in the back and push you off.

She knows that there's no going back, she knows that she might scare him off, but she can't do this anymore. She _can't_. She's tired, _so_ tired, more tired than she's ever been. And she can't do it anymore. She won't.

Fuck it all. She explodes.

She stands abruptly, her chair falling back and crashing to the floor. She pays it no mind. He jumps, but he doesn't get up. He doesn't run.

"Seven years is a long time. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I didn't feel every day of those seven years?"

She's shouting. She knows she is. But she can't stop herself. She's expelling everything that's been pent up inside her, and she can't stop.

But he's not running.

"I woke up every single one of those days and missed you. Most days I didn't want to. Most days it felt like it would be easier to _die_ than to get out of that bed, but I did it anyway. For Judith, and then for RJ. And for you. For seven years, I did everything for you. Because I knew you would want me to. That you would want me to _live_."

She's crying. She can feel tears running down her cheeks. And she's right in front of him now.

But he isn't running.

"And so I got up. I lived. And I kept your clothes, and your toothbrush, and every single, little fucking thing because I couldn't do it without you. Without reminding myself that it was what you wanted."

She pulls his chair out from the table, turns it so it faces her. He's still light enough that she can manage it without much effort.

And he doesn't run.

"I talked to you, I went to visit you. I raised our babies. And I loved you. More than anything else, I loved you."

She stops suddenly, her chest heaving. There's tears in his eyes now, too. And she's tired. Tired from yelling, but tired mostly from carrying the weight of everything these past few months have brought. From thinking that at any moment, her world would collapse in on her.

She's so tired. She collapses onto his lap, her head falling into his chest, over his heart.

And he doesn't run. He doesn't even tense.

"And now," she murmurs, "now you want to know if there was someone else? There wasn't anyone else. There isn't, there wasn't, there never will be."

"Michonne."

She feels his voice rumble in his chest. Her name isn't a whisper this time. He doesn't murmur it, or mutter it. He _says_ it, with his whole voice.

She lifts her head.

"Baby," he says, tucking a loc of her hair behind her ear.

She grabs his face with both of her hands, sitting up straight. She hovers over him slightly, close enough now that she can see the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, the flecks of cerulean in his light blue eyes that shine with tears.

And he doesn't run.

"I missed you every day," she tells him. "I loved you every day. I loved - "

He leans up and kisses her.

She doesn't respond at first, because she doesn't expect it. She stills in shock as her brain sputters to make sense of what's happening and her lips don't move back against his. And by the time it registers - that he's not running, that he's _kissing_ her - he pulls away. And the loss of him, of their contact, is so profound that she almost begins to cry harder.

 _Don't stop_ , she's about to say, but the words die in her throat as she looks at him.

He's staring up at her again, but his eyes are different. They're not squinted, and the tears in them have dried. And he isn't trying to decide anything. Instead, he looks decided.

He's looking at her like he loves her. Like he's hungry, and the only thing he wants is her.

It's how he used to look at her, almost always. Even when they weren't in the bedroom - when they went on runs, when they were out in the community doing various jobs - there would always be a hint of it, deep in his irises.

She remembers the first time he looked at her like that. That night on the couch, their hearts pounding as they kissed furiously, both of their shirts half untucked, the button of her jeans undone, hands anywhere they could find the other's bare skin. His lips left hers only to kiss across her jaw, down her neck, and settle on her collarbone, where his lips moved and his tongue danced against her skin.

His teeth nipped at her lightly, and she groaned at the pleasurable pain.

He pulled away and hovered over her. She could feel him, cooped up in his jeans, pressing incessantly against her inner thigh. She almost pouted at the sudden stop, and was about to tell him to _get back down here_ , but then she looked into his eyes.

The first time he had pulled away, a few minutes earlier, he had smiled down at her, softly and happily. She held his face, ran her fingers over his cheekbones, and smiled back.

This time, he didn't smile. He stared at her, chest heaving, wild curls framing his face like a halo of dark light, mouth hanging open.

He looked like he wanted to _devour_ her. And he had, that night and so many others after it, thoroughly and absolutely.

It's how he's looking at her now.

She feels a buzzing throughout her body, and a bolt of desire makes her shiver as it settles between her thighs. She wants him. She _wants him_.

She's never wanted him more.

She doesn't know which one of them leans in again first, but she supposes it doesn't matter, because when their lips crash together, everything flies out of her mind except for him. Him, and his lips and his body and his heart. She places one of her hands on his chest, so she can feel it beat wildly underneath her palm.

( _he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive and he's not running. he's with her. he's finally with her.)_

He's already hard beneath her, and she feels herself clench around nothing, longing for him. Longing to feel him inside her, to welcome him home. She reaches for his pants while he stands with her and lays her back on the empty table. She undoes his belt and then yanks it from the loops on his pants, dropping it to the ground. The metal buckle thumps as it hits the hardwood floor, and she jumps at the noise before laughing softly at the sudden sound. He joins her, and it makes her laugh harder.

She's happy. She's _so happy_ , and he is, too. She almost can't believe it, but she does believe it because she feels it. She feels the warmth blooming in her core and spreading into every single one of her atoms, she senses the joy rolling off of Rick in waves.

She believes it because it's real. It's radiating out of their every pore, and it's _so real_.

She continues laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. But he tugs on that hand, and she lets him pull it down, placing it on his shoulder instead. Then, he takes his index finger and gently runs it along her bottom lip, in the shape of her smile.

"I've missed you," he whispers.

She smiles, as tears gather in the corner of her eyes. She doesn't know if they're happy or sad, but it doesn't matter. Because either way, she knows he'll be there to catch them when they fall.

She leans up again to kiss him, wraps her legs around his waist as he trails his fingers up and down her bare thighs. Each touch of his hands on her skin leaves fire in their wake, a pleasant burn that spreads across her skin and sets her aflame, burning away her old self and making way for rebirth. Like the spring outside, she's blooming, the buds and blossoms inside her watered and nurtured by the light in his eyes, by the feel of his body against hers. Flowers grow between her ribs.

His hands creep under her t-shirt, travel up her sides and hover over her chest before moving down again. He grabs the hem of her shirt and she sits up, helping to pull it over her head. It falls to the floor along beside his belt.

He stares at her, licking his lips. She leans back on her hands. Her bra is already out of place, her breasts practically spilling out of the garment. And he keeps staring. She feels herself getting wetter. She forgot how wonderful it felt to be ogled by the man that you love. She raises her eyebrows, challenging him.

 _What are you waiting for?_

His eyes meet hers for a split second. And then he dives in, headfirst.

He buries his face in her cleavage, inhales her. And it gives her his answer.

 _I'm not waiting for anything. Not anymore._

He kisses and nips and the soft flesh of her breasts, and one of his hands reaches up her back, his fingers starting to fiddle with the clasp of her bra. She closes her eyes, lets out a soft moan, before opening her eyes again.

"Wait," she says.

He shakes his head, lets out some muffled hum of protest, and she laughs.

"Rick, wait," she repeats, grabbing his head and lifting it from her chest. His bottom lip juts out in adorable pout, and her smile is so wide that her cheeks hurt.

"We shouldn't do this here," she tells him softly.

"Why?" he asks, and she can hear the slight nervous lilt in his tone. Like he's afraid she's going to reject him suddenly.

She runs her hand over his hair in an attempt to soothe him. He's been keeping it short, like he did before he was taken. The fuzz feels good under her fingers.

She doesn't want to do it here. She wants to bring him back into their room, back into their bed. Take the place she poured so many tears and so much sorrow into and drain it. Fill it up with love again.

She wants to take those final steps to bring him back to her, wholly. And there are practical reasons, too.

"Because the front door is unlocked. And because the kitchen window is open. Someone could hear us."

"You plannin' on being loud?" he asks, a wicked and aroused glint appearing in his eyes.

He's half-teasing her, she knows. But the other half of him is excited at the prospect. His eyes dart around her face, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

"You planning on _making_ me be loud?" she counters.

He bites down on his bottom lip, and then stands, taking her hand. She laces their fingers together as he bends down to pick up their shirt and belt.

"C'mon," he drawls, the southern twang more pronounced as it always is when his voice is rough with pleasure.

He leads her up the stairs and down the hall, but stops when he comes to their room. She can sense his hesitation, but she waits for him.

Finally, he reaches out, hand shaking. He turns the knob, and the door falls open. She can see the sun shining in through the sheer white curtains, filling the room with light.

He doesn't move to go in, so she steps around him, tugs on his hand and beckoning him forward.

"Come on," she urges. And it takes him a moment, but he follows her.

She lets him walk past her, and then closes the door behind them. She watches him as he stands at the foot of the bed, back towards her, gazing around the room like he's never been there before.

"You were always here."

He turns to her, tilting his head to the side.

"What do you mean?" he questions.

"You were always here," she tells him again. "It wasn't just the clothes. I always felt you in here. Like you had left part of yourself behind the last time you went away. And when I wanted to feel close to you, and it wasn't practical to go to the bridge, I would take the kids to Aaron's, and come up here and crawl into bed. I'd lay my head on your pillow. Sometimes I would cry, other times I would talk, but a lot of times I would just, lay there. And I would feel like you were there with me."

She walks towards him, and wraps her arms around him tightly, resting her head on his chest, above his thumping heart.

 _(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)_

"This is yours, Rick. This room, this bed. It's all yours. It always has been, and it always will be."

They're silent for a minute, but then she feels him nod above her.

"Okay," he whispers, before pulling back so he can look into her eyes.

"Okay," he repeats.

"Okay," she says back, nodding her head.

He leans down to kiss her.

They pick back up where they left off in the dining room, wrapping themselves around each other. He sits her down on the bed, takes off her bra, finally. He palms her breasts as he kneels down, places a long kiss on each nipple, and then moves his mouth down her stomach, stopping when he gets to the waistband of her cotton shorts. He tugs them down slowly, and then peels off her soaked underwear.

She's naked before him, for the first time in seven years. But there's no nervousness, no awkwardness, no hesitation. All she feels is anticipation. Eagerness for what she knows will come next.

He stares at her from his place on the floor, mouth hanging open, breaths labored. She wants every inch of him.

She reaches for him, begins to unbutton his shirt. He assists her. As he's shrugging it off his shoulders, she goes to start on his jeans, but she stops when she sees it.

He's gained a lot of weight since he came home, but she can still see his ribs. She can still count each one of them.

She stares. She can't help it. She stares, and it takes her back to when she found him, cowering in the corner of that cold, dark room, scared and abused and halfway to death.

The people who did that to him, they're dead now. They're dead, and they will never hurt him again. But it's not good enough. She wants to go back, to line them up and kill them all over again, one by one, watch them suffer, see their fear, their -

"Michonne," she hears, in some small part of her brain. His hands cradle her cheeks, and he tilts her face up. He's gazing down at her with the slightest frown on his face.

"Stay with me," he whispers.

Her eyes flit back to his ribs for a moment, but she takes a deep breath and looks back at him.

They're dead, she reminds herself. It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that he's here, holding her. Loving her. He's alive.

They didn't win. He's alive. She leans into his hand, and feels the beat of his pulse against her skin.

( _he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)_

He's here, and he loves her.

 _Stay with me_.

"Always," she promises.

He brings her face to his, presses his lips against hers softly. For a moment, they're quiet, pressed against each other and swaying back and forth slightly.

She begins to pull on him, forcing onto the bed with her. He laughs as she scoots back towards the headboard, and he pushes down his jeans and boxers, throwing them on the floor before turning over and crawling on top of her.

Once he's settled in, she reaches down and holds him. They both groan as she strokes him, him shifting above her as his hips buck. He drips into her hand as she continues to stroke, and she reaches down with her other hand to cup his balls.

" _Fuck_ ," he murmurs, his voice strained. She can tell she's torturing him, but she can't stop. She loves it - loves making him feel like this, loves the weight of him in her hand. He feels _so good_ , and he's not even inside of her yet.

She speeds up her strokes, and he moans again, louder this time than the last. He reaches and grabs her hands, brings them up and holds them in his, lacing their fingers together.

"I want you," he says breathlessly. "I _need_ you."

She lays back, her hair spreading out on the pillows, all around her head.

"Then take me," she tells him, reaching out again and guiding him to her entrance.

He does.

He enters her in one movement, and neither of them can help the loud groans they let out. They don't move right away as they treasure the feeling of being connected once again, _finally._

But then, she grows impatient. She swivels her hips, communicating to him without words, and he begins to thrust.

It's almost like their first time, in a way. Things aren't perfectly smooth, and there are bumps and stutters along the way. Their bodies together aren't the well-oiled machine that they used to be. Neither of them are exactly how they used to be. They have to get used to this again. To find out who the other is, now.

She couldn't be more eager to learn.

They find a steady rhythm after a few minutes, and his thrusts get faster as she moves her hips in time with his. He pauses for a moment, readjusts them so he can reach her more freely, and then trails his hand down and begins to move his fingers against her.

She feels it, that tightening in the pit of her stomach, the beginning of the tide that will take her over. He begins to move his fingers more intently, syncs them with the movement of their hips, and the feeling grows. She's standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, and she's about to jump.

She lets go of everything. Everything that's been plaguing her for so long - for _seven years_ \- and lets it fade away. All of the worry, the pain, the exhaustion, the sorrow and loneliness. All of her doubts and insecurities and responsibilities and fear. She lets them go, until there's nothing left except her and this bed and him. Him, moving above and inside her, panting in her ear, setting her nerves ablaze.

She clings to him as he continues to thrust, crying out as he kindles the fire inside of her.

And she falls.

Her muscles spasm around him as she hits the water below the cliff. The waves overtake her, and her head goes under. She's drowning, but it's okay. He's here, and she never wants to breathe again.

She relaxes all at once with a contented moan, sated and happy. He continues to move above her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, his moans still echoing throughout the room even though they're muffled by her skin. Her hands roam up and down his back, wander down to his ass and squeeze.

"Come on, baby," she murmurs in his ear.

She feels his muscles stiffen suddenly, and then the warm rush as he comes inside of her. She closes her eyes, relishing it. Relishing him.

He collapses on top of her, his face still buried in her neck. They both heave as they try to catch their breath. Their chests are pressed together, and she can feel his heart pounding.

( _he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive_ )

And she's home. Finally, she's home.

* * *

It's warm again today.

She'd opened all the windows and doors when she'd come downstairs, so the fresh air could drift in and freshen up the house. She can feel the pleasant breeze blowing against her skin now, as she folds towels in the living room.

It's quiet at home. The kids are out with Daryl and Dog. She isn't sure where Rick is right now, but she knows he's nearby.

She hears small footsteps dash up the front porch steps.

"Momma!"

She smiles. It's RJ.

She sets the laundry basket she had on her lap aside, and gets up to greet him at the door. Her bare feet pad against the hardwood floor and echo softly throughout the entryway.

"Mom-"

Her eyebrows furrow as she wonders what made him stop his second call for her. She approaches the screen door and is about to open it, when she spots her son, standing on the porch and staring cautiously at something in the corner. She frowns, but then she realizes.

Rick must be sitting on the porch.

She almost runs out to them reflexively, to insert herself into the situation and try and ease the awkwardness between them. Things with RJ and Rick still aren't quite where she'd hoped they'd be. Rick is trying, and she knows RJ is too.

They'll get there. They just need time.

She steps back a bit, decides to let them work it out on their own. She angles herself in the doorway so she won't be seen by either of them.

"Hey, RJ," Rick says carefully. She knows he's trying not to scare off their son.

It takes him a minute, but RJ finally responds.

"Hi br...Daddy."

She smiles softly. RJ forgets to call him _Daddy_ a lot, having referred to him as the brave man for so long. But he's getting better.

"What are you up to? I thought you and your sister were with Uncle Daryl."

"We are, but I gotta pee."

She puts a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

"Hmm. Well, you better get in there."

"Yeah," RJ answers. He looks for a moment longer, then turns towards the house. He takes a step towards the door, but stops again.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, son?"

"Judy said...Judy said you used to sing to her when she was a little baby."

"I did," Rick answers.

"A song about dreams," RJ continues.

"Yeah. It's called _Dream a Little Dream of Me_."

"Yeah. That one."

A silence falls over them. She's about to go outside, when RJ speaks again.

"Will you sing it for me?"

"Yeah," Rick says, and she can hear a sort of strong emotion in his voice. "I'd love to. Come over here."

RJ walks over without hesitating, and her heart leaps. She hears the rocking chair Rick must be sitting in shift.

"Now, I'm not that good of a singer…"

"Momma and Judy say your voice is good."

"They're just being nice. You'll have to tell me what you think, okay?"

"Okay."

There's silence for a moment. Then, Rick starts.

 _Stars shining bright above you  
Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you"  
Birds singing in the sycamore tree  
Dream a little dream of me_

Rick starts to move on to the next verse, but RJ interrupts.

"You have a good voice!"

"Aw, thanks, buddy."

"Keep going, please," RJ insists. Rick laughs.

"Whatever you say."

 _Stars fading, but I linger on, dear  
Still craving your kiss  
I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear  
Just saying this_

She can't see them from the angle she's at, but she still doesn't want to make herself seen. She quietly rushes to the living room, so she can look out the window.

Rick is sitting in the rocking chair, and RJ is sitting on his lap, facing his father. She can't see Rick's face, but she can see RJ. The boy's eyes are wide and bright as he watches Rick, a grin on his face.

She feels tears gather in her eyes, as she watches the two boys she loves most in the entire world.

 _Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you  
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you  
But in your dreams, whatever they be  
Dream a little dream of me_

She smiles.

 _But in your dreams, whatever they be  
Dream a little dream_

"RJ! What's taking you so long?"

Judith runs up the path to their house, Dog and Daryl trailing behind her. RJ wiggles off of Rick's lap as his sister jogs up the stairs.

"Daddy sang to me. The dreams song! Just like you said."

"I thought you had to pee," Judith questions.

"Oh yeah!" RJ exclaims, like he'd just remembered his reason for coming home in the first place. "Momma!"

He runs towards the door, and she wipes at her eyes and walks to the door, arriving just as RJ flings it open.

"Momma, I have to pee!"

"Then go to the bathroom, silly!" she tells her son, placing her hand on his back and gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom as he scurries past her. She waits until she hears the door slam shut, and then she ventures outside.

Judith is at the rocking chair talking to Rick, in voices too low for her to hear them. Instead, she waves at Daryl, who's still in the yard, throwing a tennis ball around for Dog.

"Hi, Mom," she hears suddenly, and looks down to see Judith walking past her and into the house.

"Hey, Judy."

Daryl walks up the steps to the porch. He throws the tennis ball once more, and then turns towards Rick and Michonne.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Nothing," she answers. " Just hanging around. Did some laundry."

"That's not what I mean. You're all smiley."

"Smiley?" she questions.

"Yeah. Judith was telling me how y'all had this nice breakfast this morning, and the two of you were all happy. And I can tell now. You look...lighter or some shit."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, trying to play dumb. But there's a slight thrill that runs through her, at the fact that the past twenty-four hours have changed her so much that other people can tell.

Daryl doesn't answer her. Instead, he looks between her and Rick. Rick, who's sitting outside, whistling some made-up song.

Daryl grins. And she feels like it's the first time her and Rick slept together all over again, when their whole family barged in on them when they were half-dressed.

"Nevermind," Daryl mutters, and moves towards the house. Before he opens the door, he turns towards Rick.

"Hey, me and Aaron are going out tomorrow, s'long as it don't rain. You coming?"

"Uh...sure. Yeah."

It's not the first time Daryl's asked him to go on a run since he's been back, but it's the first time Rick's agreed. He always had excuses - something about being too weak, or fearing he'd be a liability instead of an asset.

She smiles at his answer. Daryl grins again, too, and then starts into the house. He calls out, just loud enough for them to hear it.

"Yeah, y'all are smiley for sure."

She looks at Rick, and he looks back at her. They burst into laughter.

She walks over to him, leans against the porch railing as she stands in front of the rocking chair.

"Why do I feel like a kid who just got caught having sex at summer camp?"

He laughs again, and then pats his lap, signaling for her to sit down.

"I'm not as little as RJ," she warns.

"I'll manage."

She smiles, and then sits down, leaning back into him. He wraps his arms around her, resting his hands on her stomach. She places her hands over his, and closes her eyes.

"So, you were spying on us?"

"I was," she admits freely. "I love seeing the two of you together. I couldn't help it. Plus, I'll never pass up a chance to hear you sing."

He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, next to the strap of her tank top.

"What did our little bird want?" she wonders.

"Apparently, she doesn't want to pass up a chance to hear me sing, either. She asked if I would sing that song for her tonight before bed."

It's been years since she's sang Judith to sleep. She smiles gently.

"She's missed you, too. More than you know."

"Yeah," he whispers. "I kind of...got that. When she was talking to me."

She nods. They're quiet for a few moments, listening to the sound of the soft breeze blowing around them.

"Michonne?"

She shifts, turning so she can see his face. He stares at her, bringing his hand up to trail along her cheekbone.

"I love you," he breathes.

It's the first time she's heard him say that in seven years.

"I love you, too," she tells him, and places a kiss on his forehead before wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on top of his head.

She knows things won't be perfect from here on out. Sex isn't a magic spell that will fix everything, as much as she wishes it was. There will be obstacles in their continued journey back together. He'll still have bad days. She will, too. There will still be nightmares, still be pain. And they'll never be the same as they were.

Instead, they'll be something new. Something that's suffered, but come out on the other side. And they'll be stronger for it. She knows they will.

They love each other. And their love is strong enough to weather any storm, to survive any fire. It's gotten them this far in the new world, and it will continue to sustain them. That's all that matters.

They love each other.

She closes her eyes, tightens her arms around him.

"I'm so glad you came home to me," she whispers.

"Always," he answers gently.

She hears the kids running around inside through the open window. Daryl shouts after them, something she can't make out, but Rick laughs. The sun shines on her skin. She hears the sound of the town thriving and bustling around them. The sound of her home. _Their_ home.

And she smiles.

* * *

 **A/N:** This is the first time I've ever written smut, so I hope it turned out okay and wasn't too clunky.

Alas, my dears, this is the last real chapter of this story. I have a short epilogue planned, but other than that, this is where I will leave this version of Rick and Michonne - at the start of a new beginning, finally on the same page and together with their family like they're always meant to be.

 _ **ALSO - the absolutely lovely msdoomandgloom has agreed to create some of her wonderful art in honor of this chapter! I won't be able to post it directly on this website, but keep your eyes open and on our twitters (mine is hawthornegrimes and hers is ms_doomandgloom) for that some time in the near future. I'm so excited for you all to see her beautiful work!**_

Thanks for reading! I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Let me know what you thought with a comment! (Props to anyone who can come up with the other fictional couple I referenced in this chapter.)

xoxo,  
rebekah


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